HI 


utuiwunuuunuuuttjiittuutunnuinu 


srrfi 


rw'h 


L:^ 


dmmmw 


tfOT*tw^twwlt^t^^M^t»M»«^tJ^tt^ll^»t^^>^^M^■t^<*^^»M^r^wtM»^^HlM■HW♦wl^*»WlH»llt<>ll»t»M»€lt««lMr»t^t«l»|^^^~ 


F.y    T.iT^r?T5; 

ANNE   DILLON 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


U  ^  11     \A#A  I    POL  E     ^"^^  Walpole,  a  descendant  of  Sir  Robert 


^ Walpole,  is  now,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty- 

TU  E*  lyS  AM  AMR  four,  at  the  top  of  his  art.  His  first  novel 
O  Ci  l¥l  **  PB  *^  W  mJ  was  published  when  he  was  twenty-five. 
HI  C  lAf  f\  D  IC  ^  ^^  possesses  wonderful  power  to  malie  you 
I  9  WW  V  1^  f\  ^  live  in  the  same  atmosphere  and  be  shaped 
by  the  same  environment  that  shapes  the  lives  of  his  characters — people  no  more 
fictional,  it  st  :ms,  than  those  with  whom  you  pass  your  daily  life.  In  his  latest 
novels  this  power  becomes  inescapable — you  are  on  the  Russian  battle  line,  you 
walk  the  streets  of  Petrograd  and  know  the  Revolution^  not  because  Walpole  tells 
you  but  because  you  seem  to  be  actually  there. 

Walpole,  a  son  of  the  Bishop  of  Edinburgh,  grew  up  in  a  little  seaside  village  in 
Cornwall,  took  an  honors  degree  in  History  at  Cambridge,  and  started  life  as  a 
master  in  a  boys'  school.  Then  he  went  up  to  London,  did  journalism  for  a  living, 
and  began  to  write  novels. 

During  the  early  years  of  the  war  Walpole  served  with  the  Russian  Red  Cross. 
Then  the  English  Government  sent  him  to  Petrograd  to  help  promote  pro-British 
sentiment. 

These  years  of  service  in  Russia,  for  which  he  received  the  Georgian  medal,  made 
upon  him  the  indellible  impressions  which  he  transferred  so  vividly  to  the  pages  of 
his  epics  of  Russian  life  that  they  have  been  trutl  fully  called  "Russian  novels  in 
English." 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE 
HUGH    WALPOLE 


NOVELS  BY  HUGH  WALPOLE 

STUDIES  IN  PLACE 

THE  WOODEN  HORSE 
MARADICK  AT  FORTY 
Mr.  PERRIN  and  Mr.  TRAILL 

PROLOaUES  TO  "THE  RISING  CITY"' 

THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 
FORTITUDE 

IN  PREPARATION 

THE  RISING  CITY 


THE 

WOODEN  HORSE 


BY 

HUGH  WALPOLE 

Author  of  "Fortitude,"  "The  Duchess  of  Wrexe,"  etc. 


"Er  liebte  Jeden  Hund,  und  wunschte  von  jedem  Hund 
geliebt  zu  seiw. "—Flegeljahre  (Jean  Paul). 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


G>045' 


TO 
W.    FERRIS 

AFFECTIONATELTf 


1C62196 


THE  WOODED  HOESE 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE 


CIIAPTEK  I 

"TJ  OBIN  TEOJAISr  was  waiting  for  his  father. 

-*-  ^  Through  the  open  window  of  the  drawing-room 
came,  faintly,  the  cries  of  the  town — the  sound  of  some 
distant  bell,  the  shout  of  fishermen  on  the  quay,  the 
muffled  beat  of  the  mining-stamps  from  Forth- Vennic, 
a  village  that  lay  two  miles  inland.  There  yet  lingered 
in  the  air  the  faint  afterglow  of  the  sunset,  and  a  few 
stars,  twinkling  faintly  in  the  deejD  blue  of  the  night  sky, 
seemed  reflections  of  the  orange  lights  of  the  herring- 
boats,  flashing  far  out  to  sea. 

The  great  drawing-room,  lighted  by  a  cluster  of  elec- 
tric lamps  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  seemed  to  flaunt  the 
dim  twinkle  of  the  stars  contemptuously;  the  dark  blue 
of  the  walls  and  thick  Persian  carpets  sounded  a  quieter 
note,  but  the  general  effect  was  of  something  distantly, 
coldly  superior,  something  indeed  that  was  scarcely  com- 
fortable, but  that  was,  nevertheless,  fulfilling  the  exact 
purpose  for  which  it  had  been  intended. 

And  that  purpose  was,  most  certainly,  not  comfort. 
Kobin  himself  would  have  smiled  contemptuously  if  you 
had  pleaded  for  something  homely,  something  suggestive 
of  roaring  fires  and  cosy  armchairs,  instead  of  the  stiff- 
backed,  beautifully  carved  Louis  XIV.  furniture  that 
stood,  each  chair  and  table  rigidly  in  its  appointed  place, 


10  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

as  though  bidding  defiance  to  any  one  bold  enough  to  at- 
tempt alterations. 

The  golden  light  in  the  sky  shone  faintly  in  at  the  open 
window,  as  though  longing  to  enter,  but  the  dazzling  bril- 
liance of  the  room  seemed  to  fling  it  back  into  the  blue 
dome  of  sea  and  sky  outside. 

Eobin  was  standing  by  a  large  looking-glass  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  room  trying  to  improve  the  shape  of  his  tie; 
and  it  was  characteristic  of  him  that,  although  he  had 
not  seen  his  father  for  eighteen  years,  he  was  thinking  a 
great  deal  more  about  his  tie  than  about  the  approaching 
meeting. 

He  was,  at  this  time,  twenty  years  of  age.  Tall  and 
dark,  he  had  all  the  Trojan  characteristics;  small,  deli- 
cately shaped  ears;  a  mouth  that  gave  signs  of  all  the 
Trojan  obstinacy,  called  by  the  Trojans  themselves  family 
pride;  a  high,  well-shaped  forehead  with  hair  closely  cut 
and  of  a  dark  brown.  He  was  considered  by  most  people 
handsome — but  to  some  his  eyes,  of  the  real  Trojan  blue, 
were  too  cold  and  impassive.  He  gave  you  the  impres- 
sion of  some  one  who  watched,  rather  disdainfully,  the  ill- 
considered  and  impulsive  actions  of  his  fellow-men. 

He  was,  liowever,  exactly  suited  to  his  surroundings. 
He  maintained  the  same  position  as  the  room  with  regard 
to  the  world  in  general — "We  are  Trojans;  we  are  very 
old  and  very  expensive  and  very,  very  good,  and  it  be- 
hooves you  to  recognise  this  fact  and  give  way  with  fitting 
deference." 

He  had  not  seen  his  father  for  eighteen  years,  and, 
as  he  had  been  separated  from  him  at  the  unimpression- 
able age  of  two,  he  may  be  said  never  to  have  seen  him  at 
all.     He  had  no  recollection  of  him,  and  the  picture  that 


THE  WOODEK  HOESE  11 

lie  had  painted  was  constructed  out  of  monthly  rather 
uninteresting  letters  concerned,  for  the  most  part,  with 
the  care  and  maintenance  of  ISTew  Zealand  sheep,  and 
such  meagre  details  as  his  Aunt  Clare  and  Uncle  Gar- 
rett had  bestowed  on  him  from  time  to  time.  From  the 
latter  he  gathered  that  his  father  had  been,  in  his 
youth,  in  some  vague  way,  unsatisfactory,  and  had  de- 
parted to  Australia  to  seek  his  fortune,  with  a  clear  un- 
derstanding from  his  father  that  he  was  not  to  return 
from  there  until  he  had  found  it. 

Robin  himself  had  been  born  in  K'ew  Zealand,  but  his 
mother  dying  when  he  was  two  years  old,  he  had  been  sent 
home  to  be  brought  up,  in  the  proper  Trojan  manner,  by 
his  aunt  and  uncle. 

On  these  things  Robin  reflected  as  he  tried  to  twist  his 
tie  into  a  fitting  Trojan  shape;  but  it  refused  to  behave 
as  a  well-educated  tie  should,  and  the  obvious  thing  was  to 
get  another.  Robin  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  really 
extremely  provoking;  the  carriage  had  been  timed  to  ar- 
rive at  half-past  six  exactly ;  it  was  now  a  quarter  to  seven 
and  no  one  had  appeared.  There  was  probably  not  time 
to  search  for  another  tie.  His  father  would  be  certain  to 
arrive  at  the  very  moment  when  one  tie  was  off  and  the 
other  not  yet  on,  which  meant  that  Robin  would  be  late; 
and  if  there  was  one  thing  that  a  Trojan  hated  more  tha 
another  it  was  being  late.  With  many  people  impunctu- 
ality  was  a  fault,  with  a  Trojan  it  was  a  crime;  it  was 
what  was  kno^^^l  as  an  "  odds  and  ends  " — one  of  those 
things,  like  untidiness,  eating  your  fish  with  a  steel  knife 
and  wearing  a  white  tie  with  a  short  dinner-jacket,  that 
marked  a  man,  once  and  for  all,  as  some  one  outside  the 
pale,  an  impossible  person. 


12  THE  WOODEI^  HORSE 

Therefore  Eobin  allowed  his  tie  to  remain  and  walked 
to  the  open  window. 

"  At  any  rate,"  he  said  to  himself,  still  thinking  of  his 
tie,  "  father  won't  probably  notice  it."  He  wondered 
how  much  his  father  would  notice.  "  As  he's  a  Trojan," 
he  thought,  "  he'll  know  the  sort  of  things  that  a  fellow 
ought  to  do,  even  though  he  has  been  out  in  New  Zealand 
all  his  life." 

It  would,  Eobin  reflected,  be  a  very  pretty  little  scene. 
He  liked  scenes,  and,  if  this  one  was  properly  manoeuvred, 
he  ought  to  be  its  very  interesting  and  satisfactory  centre. 
That  was  why  it  was  really  a  pity  about  the  tie. 

The  door  from  the  library  swung  slowly  open,  and  Sir 
Jeremy  Trojan,  Eobin's  grandfather,  was  wheeled  into 
the  room. 

He  was  very  old  indeed,  and  the  only  part  of  his  face 
that  seemed  alive  were  his  eyes;  they  were  continually 
darting  from  one  end  of  the  room  to  the  other,  they  were 
never  still ;  but,  for  the  rest,  he  scarcely  moved.  His  skin 
was  dried  and  brown  like  a  mummy's,  and  even  when  he 
spoke,  his  lips  hardly  stirred.  He  was  in  evening  dress, 
his  legs  wrapped  tightly  in  rugs ;  his  chair  was  wheeled  by 
a  servant  who  was  evidently  perfectly  trained  in  all  the 
Trojan  ways  of  propriety  and  decorum. 

"  Well,  grandfather,"  said  Eobin,  turning  back  from 
the  window  with  the  look  of  annoyance  still  on  his  face, 
"  how  are  you  to-night  ?  "  Robin  always  shouted  at  his 
grandfather  although  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  was 
not  deaf,  but  could,  on  the  other  hand,  hear  wonderfully 
well  for  his  age.  JSTothing  annoyed  his  grandfather  so 
much  as  being  shouted  at,  and  of  this  Eobin  was  continu- 
ally reminded. 


THE  WOODEX  nOESE  13 

*'  Tut,  tut,  boj,"  said  Sir  Jeremy  testily,  "  one  would 
think  that  I  was  deaf.  Better?  Yes,  of  course.  Close 
the  windows !  " 

"  I'll  ring  for  Marchant,"  said  Eobin,  moving  to  the 
bell,  "  he  ought  to  have  done  it  before."  Sir  Jeremy  said 
nothing — it  was  impossible  to  guess  at  his  thoughts  from 
his  face ;  only  his  eyes  moved  uneasily  round  the  room. 

He  was  wheeled  to  his  accustomed  corner  by  the  big 
open  stone  fireplace,  and  he  lay  there,  motionless  in  his 
chair,  without  further  remark. 

Marchant  came  in  a  moment  later. 

"  The  windows,  Marchant,"  said  Robin,  still  twisting 
uneasily  at  his  tie,  "  I  think  you  had  forgotten." 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,"  Marchant  answered,  "  but  Mr.  Gar- 
rett had  spoken  this  morning  of  the  room  being  rather 
close.     I  had  thought  that  perhaps " 

He  moved  silently  across  the  room  and  shut  the  window, 
barring  out  the  fluttering  yellow  light,  the  sparkling  silver 
of  the  stars,  the  orange  of  the  fishing-boats,  the  murmured 
distance  of  the  town. 

A  few  moments  later  Clare  Trojan  came  in.  Although 
she  had  never  been  beautiful  she  had  always  been  interest- 
ing, and  indeed  she  was  (even  when  in  the  company  of 
women  far  more  beautiful  than  herself)  always  one  of  the 
first  at  whom  men  looked.  This  may  have  been  partly  ac- 
counted for  by  her  very  obvious  pride,  the  quality  that 
struck  the  most  casual  observer  at  once,  but  there  was  also 
an  air  of  indifference,  a  look  in  the  eves  that  seemed  to 
pique  men's  curiosity  and  stir  their  interest.  It  was  not 
for  lack  of  opportunity  that  she  was  still  unmarried,  but 
she  had  never  discovered  the  man  who  had  virtue  and 
merit  sufficient  to  cover  {lie  obvious  disadvantages  of  his 


I 


I 


14  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

not  having  been  born  a  Trojan.  Middle  age  suited  tbe 
air  of  almost  regal  dignity  witb  which  she  moved,  and 
people  who  had  known  her  for  many  years  said  that  she 
had  never  looked  so  well  as  now.  To-night,  in  a  closely- 
fitting  dress  of  black  silk  relieved  by  a  string  of  pearls 
round  her  neck,  and  a  superb  white  rose  at  her  breast,  she 
was  almost  handsome.  Robin  watched  her  with  satisfac- 
tion as  she  moved  towards  him. 

"  Ah,  it's  cold,"  she  said.  "  I  know  Marchant  left 
those  windows  open  till  the  last  moment.  Eobin,  your  tie 
is  shocking.     It  looks  as  if  it  were  made-up." 

"  I  know,"  said  Robin,  still  struggling  with  it ;  "  but 
their  isn't  time  to  get  another.  Father  will  be  here  at  any 
moment.  It's  late  as  it  is.  Yes,  I  told  Marchant  to  shut 
the  windows,  he  said  something  about  Uncle  Garrett's, 
saying  it  was  stuffy  or  something." 

"  Harry's  late."  Clare  moved  across  to  her  father  and 
bent  down  and  kissed  him. 

"  How  are  you  to-night,  father  ?  "  but  she  was  arranging 
the  rose  at  her  breast  and  was  obviously  thinking  more  of 
its  position  than  of  the  answer  to  her  question. 

"  Hungry — damned  hungry,"  said  Sir  Jeremy. 

"  Oh,  we'll  have  to  wait,"  said  Clare.  "  Harry's  got  to 
dress.  Anyhow  you've  got  no  right  to  be  hungry  at  a 
quarter  to  seven.  J^obody's  ever  hungry  till  half-past 
seven  at  the  earliest." 

It  was  evident  that  she  was  very  ill  at  ease.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  prospect  of  meeting  her  brother  after  a  separa- 
tion of  eighteen  years ;  perhaps  it  was  anxiety  as  to  how 
this  reclaimed  son  of  the  house  of  Trojan  would  behave 
in  the  face  of  the  world.  It  was  so  very  important  that 
the  house  should  not  be  in  any  way  let  down,  that  the  dig- 


/ 


THE  WOODEN"  HORSE  15 

mtj  with  which  it  had  invariably  conducted  its  affairs  for 
the  last  twenty  years  should  be,  in  no  way,  impaired. 
Harry  had  been  anything  but  dignified  in  his  early  days, 
and  sheep-farming  in  New  Zealand — well,  of  course,  one 
knew  what  kind  of  life  that  was. 

But,  as  she  looked  across  at  Robin,  it  was  easy  to  see 
-that  her  anxiety  was,  in  some  way,  connected  with  him. 
How  was  this  invasion  to  affect  her  nephew  ?  For  eighteen 
years  she  had  been  the  only  father  and  mother  that  he  had 
known,  for  eighteen  years  she  had  educated  him  in  all  the 
Trojan  laws  and  traditions,  the  things  that  a  Trojan  must 
speak  and  do  and  think,  and  he  had  faithfully  responded 
to  her  instruction.  He  was  in  every  way  everything  that 
a  Trojan  should  be;  but  there  had  been  moments,  rare 
indeed  and  swiftly  passing,  when  Clare  had  fancied  that 
there  were  other  impulses,  other  ideas  at  work.  She  was 
afraid  of  those  impulses,  and  she  was  afraid  of  what  Henry 
Trojan  might  do  with  regard  to  them. 

It  was,  indeed,  hard,  after  reigning  absolutely  for 
eighteen  years,  to  yield  her  place  to  another,  but  perhaps, 
after  all,  Robin  would  be  true  to  his  early  training  and 
she  would  not  be  altogether  supplanted. 

"  Randal  comes  to-morrow,"  said  Robin  suddenly,  after 
a  few  minutes'  silence.  "  Unfortunately  he  can  only  stop 
for  a  few  days.  His  paper  on  '  Pater '  has  been  taken  by 
the  National.     He's  very  much  pleased,  of  course." 

Robin  spoke  coldly  and  without  any  enthusiasm.  It 
was  not  considered  quite  good  form  to  be  enthusiastic ;  it 
was  apt  to  lead  you  into  rather  uncertain  company  with 
such  people  as  Socialists  and  the  Salvation  Army. 

"  I'm  glad  he's  coming — quite  a  nice  fellow,"  said  Clare, 
looking  at  the  gold  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.     "  The  train 


16  THE  WOODEN"  HOUSE 

is  shockingly  late.  On  *  Pater,'  you  said !  I  must  try 
and  get  the  National — Miss  Ponsonby  takes  it,  I  think. 
It's  unusual  for  Garrett  to  be  unpunctual." 

He  entered  at  the  same  moment — a  tall,  thin  man  of 
forty  years  of  age,  clean  shaven  and  rather  bald,  with  a 
very  slight  squint  in  the  right  eye.  He  walked  slowly, 
and  always  gave  the  impression  that  he  saw  nothing  of  his; 
surroundings.  Eor  the  rest,  he  was  said  to  be  extremely 
cynical  and  had  more  than  a  fair  share  of  the  Trojan  pride. 

"  The  train  is  late,"  he  said,  addressing  no  one  in  par- 
ticular.    "  Father,  how  are  you  this  evening  ?  " 

This  third  attack  on  Sir  Jeremy  was  repelled  by  a  snort,, 
which  Garrett  accepted  as  an  answer.     "  Robin,  your  tie- 
is  atrocious,"  he  continued,  picking  up  the  Times  and 
opening  it  slowly ;  "  you  had  better  change  it." 

Eobin  was  prevented  from  answering  by  the  sound  of 
carriage-wheels  on  the  drive.  Clare  rose  and  stood  by  the 
fireplace  near  Sir  Jeremy;  Garrett  read  to  the  end  of  the 
paragraph  and  folded  the  paper  on  his  knee;  Robin  fin- 
gered his  watch-chain  nervously  and  moved  to  his  aunt's 
side — only  Sir  Jeremy  remained  motionless  and  gave  no 
sign  that  he  had  heard. 

Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  that  day  twenty  years  be- 
fore when,  after  a  very  heated  interview,  he  had  forbidden 
his  son  to  see  his  face  again  until  he  had  done  something 
that  definitely  justified  his  existence.  Harry  had  cer-- 
tainly  done  several  things  since  then  that  justified  his  ex- 
istence; he  had,  for  one  thing,  made  a  fortune,  and  that 
was  not  so  easily  done  nowadays.  Harry  was  five-and- 
f  orty  now ;  he  must  be  very  much  changed ;  he  had  steadied 
do^vn,  of  course  ...  he  would  be  well  able  to  take  his 
place  as  head  of  the  family  when  Sir  Jeremy  himself  .  .  ... 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  17 

But  he  gave  no  sign.  You  could  not  tell  that  he  had 
heard  the  carriage-wheels  at  all ;  he  lay  motionless  in  his 
chair  with  his  eyes  half  closed. 

There  were  voices  in  the  hall.  Beldam's  superlatively 
courteous  tones  as  of  one  who  is  ready  to  die  to  serve  you, 
and  then  another  voice — rather  loud  and  sharp,  but  pleas- 
ant, with  the  sound  of  a  laugh  in  it. 

"  They  are  in  the  blue  drawing-room,  sir — Mr.  Henry," 
Beldam's  voice  was  heard  on  the  stairs,  and,  in  a  moment, 
Beldam  himself  appeared — "  Mr.  Henry,  Sir  Jeremy." 
Then  he  stood  aside,  and  Henry  Trojan  entered  the  room. 

Clare  made  a  step  forward. 

"  Harry — old  boy — at  last " 

Both  her  hands  were  outstretched,  but  he  disregarded 
them,  and,  stepping  forward,  crushed  her  in  his  arms, 
crushed  her  dress,  crushed  the  beautiful  rose  at  her  breast, 
and,  bending  down,  kissed  her  again  and  again. 

"  Clare — after  twenty  years !  " 

He  let  her  go  and  she  stepped  back,  still  smiling,  but 
she  touched  the  rose  for  a  moment  and  her  hair.  He  was 
very  strong. 

And  then  there  was  a  little  pause.  Harry  Trojan 
turned  and  faced  his  father.  The  old  man  made  no 
movement  and  gave  no  sign,  but  he  said,  his  lips  stirring 
very  slightly,  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you  here  again,  Harry." 

The  man  flushed,  and  with  a  little  stammer  answered, 
"  I  am  gladder  to  be  back  than  you  can  know,  father." 

Sir  Jeremy's  wrinkled  hand  appeared  from  behind  the 
rugs,  and  the  two  men  shook  in  silence. 

Then  Garrett  came  forward.  "  You're  not  much 
changed,  Harry,"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  "  in  spite  of  the 
twenty  years." 


18  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

"  Why,  Garrie !  "  His  brother  stepped  towards  him 
and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  It's  splendid  to  see 
you  again.  I'd  almost  forgotten  what  you  were  like — I 
only  had  that  old  photo,  you  know — of  us  both  at  Eugby." 

Robin  had  stood  aside,  in  a  corner  by  the  fireplace, 
watching  his  father.  It  was  very  much  as  he  had  ex- 
pected, only  he  couldn't,  try  as  he  might,  think  of  him 
as  his  father  at  all.  The  man  there  who  had  kissed  Aunt 
Clare  and  shaken  hands  with  Sir  Jeremy  was,  in  some 
unexplained  way,  a  little  odd  and  out  of  place.  He  was 
very  big  and  strong ;  his  hair  curled  a  little  and  was  dark 
brown,  like  Robin's,  and  his  eyes  were  blue,  but,  in  other 
respects,  there  was  very  little  of  the  Trojan  about  him. 
His  mouth  was  large,  and  he  had  a  brown,  slightly  curl- 
ing moustache.  Indeed  the  general  impression  was  brown 
in  spite  of  the  blue,  badly  fitting  suit.  He  was  deeply 
tanned  by  the  sun  and  was  slightly  freckled. 

He  would  have  looked  splendid  in  New  Zealand  or 
Xlondyke,  or,  indeed,  anywhere  where  you  worked  with 
your  coat  off  and  your  shirt  open. at  the  neck;  but  here,  in 
that  drawing-room,  it  was  a  pity,  Robin  thought,  that  his 
father  had  not  stopped  for  two  or  three  days  in  town  and 
gone  to  a  West  End  tailor. 

But,  after  all,  it  was  a  very  nice  little  scene.  It  really 
had  been  quite  moving  to  see  him  kiss  Clare  like  that,  but, 
at  the  same  time,  for  his  part,  kissing  .  .  .    ! 

"  And  Robin  ?  "  said  Harry. 

"  Here's  the  son  and  heir,"  said  Garrett,  laughing  and 
pushing  Robin  forward. 

Now  that  the  moment  had  really  come,  Robin  was  most 
unpleasantly  embarrassed.  How  foolish  of  Uncle  Gar- 
rett to  try  and  be  funny  at  a  time  like  that,  and  what  a 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  19 

pity  it  was  that  his  tie  was  sticking  out  at  one  end  so 
much  farther  than  at  the  other.  He  felt  his  hand  seized 
and  crushed  in  the  grip  of  a  giant ;  he  murmured  some- 
thing about  his  being  pleased,  and  then,  suddenly,  his 
father  bent  down  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

They  were  both  blushing,  Robin  furiously.  How  he 
hated  sentiment !  He  felt  sure  that  Uncle  Garrett  was 
laughing  at  him. 

"  By  Jove,  you're  splendid !  "  said  Harry,  holding  him 
back  with  both  his  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "  Prettv  dif- 
ferent  from  the  nipper  that  I  sent  over  to  England  eight- 
een years  ago.     Oh,  you'll  do,  Eobin." 

"  And  now,  Harry,"  said  Clare,  laughing,  "  you'll  go 
and  dress,  won't  you  1  Father's  terribly  hungry  and  the 
train  was  late." 

"  Eight,"  said  Harry ;  "  I  won't  be  long.  It's  splendid 
to  be  back  again." 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  there  was 
silence.  He  gave  the  impression  of  some  one  filled  with 
overw'helming,  rapturous  joy.  There  was  a  light  in  his 
eyes  that  told  of  dreams  at  length  fulfilled,  and  hopes, 
long  and  wearily  postponed,  at  last  realised.  He  had 
/  filled  that  stiff,  solemn  room  with  a  spirit  of  life  and 
:  strength  and  sheer  animal  good  health — it  was  even,  as 
Clare  afterwards  privately  confessed,  a  little  exhausting. 

ISTow  she  stood  by  the  fireplace,  smiling  a  little.  "  My 
poor  rose,"  she  said,  looking  at  some  of  the  petals  that 
had  fallen  to  the  gTound.     "  Harry  is  strong!  " 

"  He  is  looking  well,"  said  Garrett.  It  sounded  almost 
sarcastic. 

Robin  went  up  to  his  room  to  change  his  tie — he  had 
said  nothing  about  his  father. 


20  THE  WOODEIT  HORSE 

As  Harry  Trojan  passed  down  the  well-remembered 
passages  where  the  pictures  hung  in  the  same  old  familiar 
places,  past  staircases  vanishing  into  dark  abysses  that  had 
frightened  him  as  a  child,  windows  deep-set  in  the  thick 
stone  walls,  corners  round  which  he  had  crept  in  the  dark 
on  his  way  to  his  room,  it  seemed  to  him  that  those  long, 
dreary  years  of  patient  waiting  in  New  Zealand  were  as 
nothing,  and  that  it  was  only  yesterday  that  he  had  passed 
down  that  same  way,  his  heart  full  of  rage  against  his 
father,  his  one  longing  to  get  out  and  away  to  other  coun- 
tries where  he  should  be  his  own  master  and  win  his  own 
freedom.  And  now  that  he  was  back  again,  now  that  he 
had  seen  what  that  freedom  meant,  now  that  he  had  tasted 
that  same  will-o'-the-wisp  liberty,  how  thankful  he  was  to 
rest  here  quietly,  peacefully,  for  the  remainder  of  his 
days ;  at  last  he  knew  what  were  the  things  that  were  alone, 
in  this  world,  worth  striving  for — not  money,  ambition, 
success,  but  love  for  one's  own  little  bit  of  country  that 
one  called  home,  the  patient  resting  in  the  heritage  of  all 
those  accumulating  traditions  that  ancestors  had  been  mak- 
ing, slowly,  gradually,  for  centuries  of  years. 

He  had  hoped  that  he  would  have  the  same  old  rooms 
at  the  top  of  the  West  Towers  that  he  had  had  when  a  boy ; 
be  remembered  the  view  of  the  sea  from  their  windows — ' 
the  great  sweep  of  the  Cornish  coast  far  out  to  Land's 
End  itself,  and  the  gulls  whirring  with  hoarse  cries  over 
his  head  as  he  leant  out  to  view  the  little  cove  nestling  at 
the  foot  of  the  Hall.  That  view,  then,  had  meant  to  him 
distant  wonderful  lands  in  which  he  was  to  make  his 
name  and  his  fortune:  now  it  spoke  of  home  and  peace, 
-and,  beyond  all,  of  Cornwall. 

They  had  put  him  in  one  of  the  big  spare  rooms  that 


THE  WOODEIT  HORSE  21 

faced  inland.  As  he  entered  the  sense  of  its  luxury  filled 
him  with  a  delicious  feeling  of  comfort :  the  log-fire  burn- 
ing in  the  open  brown-tiled  fireplace,  the  softness  of  the 
carpets,  the  electric  light,  shaded  to  a  soft  glow — ah! 
these  were  the  things  for  which  he  had  waited,  and  they 
had,  indeed,  been  worth  waiting  for. 

His  man  was  laying  his  dress-clothes  on  his  bed. 

"  What  is  your  name  ? "  he  said,  feeling  almost  a  little 
shy ;  it  was  so  long  since  he  had  had  things  done  for  him. 

"  James  Treduggan,  sir,"  the  man  answered,  smiling. 
"  You  won't  remember  me,  sir,  I  expect.  I  was  quite  a 
youngster  when  you  went  away.  But  I've  been  in  service 
here  ever  since  I  was  ten."  There  was  a  note  of  pride  in 
his  voice;  he,  too,  had  the  Trojan  traditions  strong  upon 
him. 

When  Harry  was  left  alone,  he  stood  by  the  fire,  think- 
ing. He  had  been  preparing  for  this  moment  for  so  long 
that  now  that  it  was  actually  here  he  was  frightened,  nerv- 
ous. He  had  so  often  imagined  that  first  arrival  in  Eng- 
land, the  first  glimpse  of  London;  then  the  first  meeting 
and  the  first  evening  at  home.  Of  course,  all  his  thoughts 
had  centred  on  Eobin — everything  else  had  been  second- 
ary, but  he  had,  in  some  unaccountable  way,  never  been 
able  to  realise  exactlv  what  Robin  would  be.  He  had  had 
photogTaphs,  but  they  had  been  unsatisfactoiy  and  had 
told  him  nothing;  and  now  that  he  had  seen  him,  he  was 
at  rest ;  he  was  all  that  he  had  hoped — straight,  strong, 
manly,  with  that  clear  steady  look  in  the  eyes  that  meant 
so  much;  yes,  there  was  no  doubt  about  his  son.  He  re- 
membered Robin's  mother  with  affectionate  tenderness ; 
she  had  been  the  daughter  of  a  doctor  in  Auckland — he 
had  fallen  in  love  with  her  at  once  and  married  her,  al- 


22  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

though  his  prospects  had  been  so  bad.  They  had  been 
very  happy,  and  then,  when  Robin  was  two  years  old,  she 
had  died;  the  boy  had  been  sent  home,  and  he  had  been 
alone  again — for  eighteen  years  he  had  been  alone.  There 
had  been  other  women,  of  course;  he  did  not  pretend  to 
have  been  a  saint,  and  women  had  liked  him  and  been 
rather  sorry  for  him  in  those  early  years:  but  they  had 
none  of  them  been  very  much  to  him,  only  episodes — the 
central  fact  of  his  existence  had  always  been  his  son.  He 
had  had  a  friend  there,  a  Colonel  Durand,  who  had  three 
sons  of  his  own,  and  had  given  him  much  advice  as  to  his 
treatment  of  Robin.  He  had  talked  a  great  deal  about 
the  young  generation,  about  its  impatience  of  older  theories 
and  manners,  its  dislike  of  authority  and  restraint;  and 
Harry,  remembering  his  own  early  hatred  of  restriction 
and  longing  for  freedom,  was  determined  that  he  would 
be  no  fetter  on  his  son's  liberty,  that  he  would  be  to  him 
a  friend,  a  companion  rather  than  a  father.  After  all, 
he  felt  no  more  than  twenty-five — there  was  really  no 
space  of  years  between  them — he  was  as  young  to-day  as 
he  had  been  twenty  years  ago. 

As  to  the  others,  he  had  never  cared  very  much  for 
Olare  and  Garrett  in  the  old  days;  they  had  been  stiff, 
cold,  lacking  all  sense  of  family  affection.  But  that  had 
been  twenty  years  ago.  There  had  been  a  time,  in  IvTew 
Zealand,  when  he  had  hated  Garrett.  When  he  had  been 
away  from  home  for  some  ten  years,  the  longing  to  see  his 
boy  had  grown  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  and  he  had  writ- 
ten to  his  father  asking  for  permission  to  return.  He 
had  received  a  cold  answer  from  Garrett,  saying  that  Sir 
Jeremy  thought  that,  as  he  was  so  successful  there,  it 
would  be  perhaj)S  better  if  he  remained  there  a  little 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  23 

while  longer ;  that  he  would  find  little  to  do  at  home  and 
would  only  weary  of  the  monotony — four  closely  written 
pages  to  the  same  effect.     So  Harry  had  remained. 

But  that  was  ten  years  ago ;  at  last,  a  letter  had  come, 
saying  that  Sir  Jeremy  was  now  very  old  and  feeble,  that 
he  desired  to  see  his  son  before  he  died,  and  that  all  the 
past  was  forgotten  and  forgiven.  And  now  there  was  but 
one  thought  in  his  heart — love  for  all  the  world,  one  over- 
whelming desire  to  take  his  place  amongst  them  decently^ 
worthily,  so  that  they  might  see  that  the  wastrel  of  twenty 
years  ago  had  developed  into  a  man,  able  to  take  his  place, 
in  due  time,  at  the  head  of  the  Trojan  family.  Oh!  how 
he  would  try  to  please  them  all !  how  he  would  watch  and 
study  and  work  so  that  that  long  twenty  years'  exile  might 
be  forgotten  both  by  himself  and  by  them. 

He  bathed  and  dressed  slowly  by  the  fire.  As  he  saw 
his  clothes  on  the  bed  he  fancied,  for  a  moment,  that  they 
might  be  a  little  worn,  a  little  old.  They  had  seemed  very 
good  and  smart  in  Auckland,  but  in  England  it  was  rather 
different.  He  almost  wished  that  he  had  stayed  in  Lon- 
don for  two  days  and  been  properly  fitted  by  a  tailor. 
But  then  he  had  been  so  eager  to  arrive:  he  had  not 
thought  of  clothes ;  his  one  idea  had  been  to  rush  down  as 
soon  as  possible  and  see  them  all,  and  the  place,  and  the 
town. 

Then  he  remembered  that  Clare  had  asked  him  to  be 
quick.  He  finished  his  dressing  hurriedly,  turned  out 
the  electric  light,  and  left  the  room. 

He  was  pleased  to  find  that  he  had  not  forgotten  the 
turns  and  twists  of  the  house.  He  threaded  the  dark  pas- 
sages easily,  humming  a  little  tune,  and  smelling  that  same 
sweet  scent  of  dried  rose  leaves  that  he  had  known  so 


24  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

well  when  lie  was  a  small  boy.  He  could  see,  in  imagina- 
tion, the  great  wliite-and-pink  china  pot-pourri  bowls 
standing  at  the  corner  of  the  stairs — nothing  was  changed. 

The  blue  drawing-room  was  deserted  when  he  entered 
it — only  the  blaze  of  the  electric  light,  the  golden  flame 
of  the  log-fire  in  the  great  open  fireplace,  and  the  solemn 
ticking  of  the  gold  clock  that  had  stood  there,  in  the  same 
place  of  honour,  for  the  last  hundred  years.  He  passed 
over  to  the  windows  and  flung  them  open ;  the  hum  of 
the  town  came,  with  the  cold  night  air,  into  the  room. 
The  stars  were  brilliant  to-night  and  the  golden  haze  of 
the  lamplight  hung  over  the  streets  like  a  magic  curtain. 
Ah !  how  good  it  was !  The  peace  of  it,  the  comfort,  the 
homeliness ! 

Above  all,  it  was  Cornwall — the  lights  of  the  herring 
fleet,  the  distant  rhythmical  beat  of  the  mining-stamps, 
that  peculiar  scent  as  of  precious  spices  coming  with  the 
wind  of  the  sea,  as  though  borne  from  distant  magical 
lands,  all  told  him  that  he  was,  at  last,  again  in  Cornwall. 

He  drank  in  the  night  air,  bending  his  eyes  on  the  town 
fts  though  he  were  saluting  it  again,  tenderly,  joyously, 
with  the  greeting  of  an  old  familiar  friend. 

Eobin  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  shivered  a  little. 
The  windows  were  open — how  annoying  when  Aunt  Clare 
had  especially  asked  that  they  should  be  closed.  Oh !  it 
Was  his  father !     Of  course,  he  did  not  know ! 

He  had  not  been  noticed,  so  he  coughed.  Harry  turned 
found. 

"  Hullo,  Robin,  my  boy !  "  He  passed  his  arm  through 
his  son's  and  drew  him  to  the  window.  "  Isn't  it  splen- 
did ?  "  he  said.  "  Oh !  I  don't  suppose  you  notice  it  now, 
after  having  been  here  all  this  time ;  you  want  to  go  away 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  25 

for  twenty  years,  then  you'd  know  how  much  it's  worth. 
Oh!  it's  splendid — what  times  we'll  have  here,  you  and 
I?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Eobin,  a  little  coldly.  It  was  very  chilly 
with  the  window  open,  and  there  was  something  in  all 
that  enthusiasm  that  was  almost  a  little  vulgar.  Of 
course,  it  was  natural,  after  being  away  so  long  .  .  .  but 
still.  .  .  .  Also  his  father's  clothes  were  really  very  old 
— the  back  of  the  coat  was  quite  shiny. 

Sir  Jeremy  entered  in  his  chair,  followed  by  Clare  and 
Garrett. 

Clare  gave  a  little  scream. 

"  Oh !     How  cold !  "  she  cried ;  "  now  whoever !  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  was  guilty,"  said  Harry,  laughing. 
''  The  town  looked  so  splendid  and  I  hadn't  seen  it  for 
so  long.     I " 

"  Of  course,  I  forgot,"  said  Clare ;  "  I  don't  suppose 
you  notice  open  windows  in  New  Zealand,  because  you're 
always  outside  in  the  Bush  or  something.  But  here  we're 
as  shivery  as  you  make  them.  Dinner's  getting  shivery 
ioo.     The  sooner  we  go  down  the  better." 

She  passed  back  through  the  door  and  down  the  hall. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  she  was  a  magnificent  woman. 

As  Sir  Jeremy  was  wheeled  through  the  door  he  gripped 
Harry's  hand.  "  I'm  damned  glad  that  you're  back,"  he 
whispered. 

Robin,  who  was  the  last  to  leave  the  room,  closed  the 
windows  and  turned  out  the  lights.  The  room  was  in 
darkness  save  for  the  golden  light  of  the  leaping  fire. 


CHAPTER  II 

TT  had  been  called  the  "House  of  the  Flutes"  since 
■•■  the  beginning  of  time.  People  had  said  that  the  name 
was  absurd,  and  Harry's  grandfather,  an  extremely  prosaic 
gentleman  of  rather  violent  radical  opinions,  had  made  a 
definite  attempt  at  a  change — but  he  had  failed.  Trojans 
had  appeared  from  every  part  of  the  country,  angry 
Trojans,  tearful  Trojans,  indignant  Trojans,  important 
Trojans,  poor-relation  Trojans,  and  had,  one  and  all,  de- 
manded that  the  name  should  remain,  and  that  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Trojan  tradition,  of  the  Trojan  power, 
should  continue  to  be  the  "  House  of  the  Flutes." 

Of  course,  it  had  its  origin  in  tradition.  In  the  early 
days  when  might  was  right,  and  the  stronger  seized  the 
worldly  goods  of  the  weaker  and  nobody  said  him  nay, 
there  had  been  a  Sir  Jeremy  Trojan  whose  wife  had  been 
the  talk  of  the  country-side  both  because  of  her  beauty 
and  also  because  of  her  easy  morals.  Sir  Jeremy  having 
departed  on  a  journey,  the  lovely  Lady  Clare  entertained 
a  neighbouring  baron  at  her  husband's  bed  and  board, 
and  for  two  days  all  was  well.  But  Sir  Jeremy  unexpect- 
edly returned,  and,  being  a  gentleman  of  a  pleasant  fancy, 
walled  up  the  room  in  which  he  had  found  the  erring 
couple  and  left  them  inside.  He  then  sat  outside,  and 
listened  with  a  gentle  pleasure  to  their  cries,  and,  being 
a  musician  of  no  mean  quality,  played  on  the  flute  from 

time  to  time  to  prevent  the  hours  from  being  wearisome. 

26 


THE  WOODEN"  HORSE  27 

Eor  three  days  be  sat  there,  "until  there  came  no  more 
sounds  from  that  room;  then  he  pursued  his  ordinary 
affairs,  but  sought  no  other  wife — a  grim  little  man  with 
a  certain  sense  of  humour. 

There  are  many  other  legends  connected  with  the  house ; 
you  will  find  them  in  Baedeker,  where  it  also  says: 
"  Kind  permission  is  accorded  by  Sir  Henry  Trojan  to 
visitors  who  desire  to  see  the  rooms  during  the  residence 
of  the  family  in  London.  Special  attention  should  be 
paid  to  the  gold  Drawing-room  with  its  magnificent 
carving,  the  library  with  its  fine  collection  of  old  prints, 
and  the  Long  Gallery  with  the  family  portraits,  notic- 
ing especially  the  Vandyke  of  Sir  Hilary  Trojan  {temp. 
Ch.  L),  and  a  little  sketch  by  Turner  of  the  view  from 
the  West  Tower.  The  gardens,  too,  are  well  worth  a 
short  inspection,  special  mention  being  made  of  the  Long 
Terrace  with  its  magnificent  sea-view. 

"  A  small  charge  is  made  by  Sir  Henry  for  admittance 
(adults  sixpence,  children  half-price),  with  a  view  to 
benefiting  the  church,  a  building  recently  restored  and 
sadly  in  need  of  funds." 

So  far  Baedeker  (Cornwall,  new  ed.,  1908).  The 
house  is  astonishingly  beautiful,  seen  from  any  point  of 
view.  Added  to  from  time  to  time,  it  has  that  air  of 
surprise,  as  of  a  building  containing  endless  secrets,  only 
some  of  which  it  intends  to  reveal.  It  is  full  of  corners 
and  angles,  and  at  the  same  time  preserves  a  symmetry 
and  grandeur  of  style  that  is  astonishing,  if  one  considers 
its  haphazard  construction  and  random  additions. 

Part  of  its  beauty  is  undoubtedly  owing  to  its  superb 
position.  It  rose  from  the  rock,  over  the  grey  town  at 
its  feet,  like  a  protecting  deity,  its  two  towers  to  west  and 


28  THE  WOODEIsT  HORSE 

east,  raised  like  giant  hands,  its  grey  walls  rising  sheer 
from  the  steep,  shelving  rock;  behind  it  the  gentle  rise 
of  hills,  bending  towards  the  inland  valleys,  in  front  of 
it  an  unbroken  stretch  of  sea. 

It  struck  the  exact  note  that  was  in  harmony  with  its 
colour  and  surroundings;  the  emblem  of  some  wild  sur- 
vival from  dark  ages  when  that  spot  had  been  one  of  the 
most  uncivilised  in  the  whole  of  Britain — a  land  of  wild, 
uncouth  people,  living  in  a  state  of  perpetual  watch  and 
guard,  fearing  the  sea,  fearing  the  land,  cringingly  super- 
stitious because  of  their  crying  need  of  supernatural  de- 
fence; and,  indeed,  there  is  nothing  more  curious  in  the 
Cornwall  of  to-day  than  this  perpetual  reminder  of  past 
superstitions,  dead  gods,  strange  pathetic  survival  of 
heathen  ancestry,  that  is  the  true  Cornwall. 

The  town  of  Pendragon,  lying  at  the  foot  of  the 
"  House  of  the  Flutes,"  had  little  of  this  survival  of  former 
custom  about  it ;  it  was  rapidly  developing  into  that  temple 
of  British  middle-class  mediocrity,  a  modern  watering- 
place.  It  had,  in  the  months  of  June,  July,  and  August, 
nigger  minstrels,  a  cafe  chantant,  and  a  promenade,  with 
six  bathing-machines  and  two  donkeys;  two  new  hotels 
had  sprung  up  within  the  last  two  years,  a  sufficient  sign 
of  its  prosperity.  ]^o,  Pendragon  was  doing  its  best  to 
forget  its  ancient  superstitions,  and  even  seemed  to  regard 
the  "  House  of  the  Flutes  "  a  little  resentf  idly  because 
of  its  reminder  of  a  time  when  men  scaled  the  rocks  and 
stormed  the  walls,  and  fell  back  dying  and  cursing  into 
their  ships  riding  at  anchor  in  the  little  bay. 

Very  different  was  Cullin's  Cove,  the  little  fishing- 
village  that  lay  slightly  to  the  right  of  the  town.  Here 
traditions  were  carefully  guarded;   a  strict  watch  was 


THE  WOODEX  HORSE  29 

kept  on  the  outside  world,  and  strangers  were  none  too 
cheerfully  received.  Here,  "  down-along,"  was  the  old, 
the  true  Cornwall — a  land  that  had  changed  scarcely  at  all 
since  those  early  heathen  days  that  to  the  rest  of  the  world 
are  dim,  mysterious^  mythological,  but  to  a  Cornishman 
are  as  the  events  of  yesterday.  High  on  the  moor  behind 
the  Cove  stand  four  great  rocks — wild,  wind-beaten, 
grimly  permanent.  It  is  under  their  guardianship  that 
the  Cove  lies,  and  it  is  something  more  than  a  mere  super- 
stitious reverence  that  those  inhabitants  of  ''  down-along  " 
pay  to  those  darkly  mysterious  figures.  Seen  in  the  fading 
light  of  the  dying  day,  when  Cornish  mists  are  winding 
and  twisting  over  the  breast  of  the  moor,  these  four  rocks 
seem  to  take  a  living  shape,  to  grow  in  size,  and  to  whisper 
to  those  that  care  to  hear  old  stories  of  the  slaughter  that 
had  stained  the  soil  at  their  feet  on  an  earlier  day. 

Erom  Harry's  windows  the  town  and  the  sea  were 
hidden.  Immediately  below  him  lay  the  tennis-lawns  and 
the  rose-garden,  and,  gleaming  in  the  distance,  at  the  end 
of  the  Long  Walk,  two  white  statues  that  had  fascinated 
him  in  his  boyhood. 

His  first  waking  thought  on  the  morning  after  his 
arrival  was  to  look  for  those  statues,  and  when  he  saw 
them  gleaming  in  the  sun  just  as  they  used  to  do,  there 
swept  over  him  a  feeling  of  youth  and  vigour  such  as  he 
had  never  known  before.  Those  twenty  years  in  New 
Zealand  were,  after  all,  to  go  for  nothing ;  they  were  to  be 
as  though  they  had  had  no  existence,  and  he  was  to  be  the 
young  energetic  man  of  twenty-five,  able  to  enter  into  his 
son's  point  of  view,  able  to  share  his  life  and  vitality,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  to  give  him  the  benefit  of  his  riper  ex- 
perience. 


30  THE  WOODEIST  HORSE 

Througli  his  open  window  came  the  faint,  distant  beat- 
ing of  the  sea ;  a  bird  flew  past  him,  a  white  flash  of  light ; 
some  one  was  singing  the  refrain  of  a  Cornish  "  chanty  " 
— the  swing  of  the  tune  came  up  to  him  from  the  garden, 
and  some  of  the  words  beat  like  little  bells  upon  his  brain, 
calling  up  endless  memories  of  his  boyhood. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  found  that  it  was  nine 
o'clock.  He  had  no  idea  that  it  was  so  late ;  he  had  asked 
to  be  called  at  seven,  but  he  had  slept  so  soundly  that  he 
had  not  heard  his  man  enter  with  his  shaving  water;  it 
was  quite  cold  now,  and  his  razors  were  terribly  blunt. 
He  cut  himself  badly,  a  thing  that  he  scarcely  ever  did. 
But  it  was  really  unfortunate,  on  this  first  morning  when 
he  had  wanted  everything  to  be  at  its  best. 

He  came  down  to  the  breakfast-room  humming.  The 
house  seemed  a  palace  of  gold  on  this  wonderful  Septem- 
ber morning;  the  light  came  in  floods  through  the  great 
windows  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  shafts  of  golden 
light  struck  the  walls  and  the  china  pot-pourri  bowls  and 
flashed  wonderful  colours  out  of  a  great  Venetian  vase 
that  stood  by  the  hall  door. 

It  was  certainly  a  very  wonderful  house. 

He  found  Garrett  and  Robin  breakfasting  alone;  Clare 
and  Sir  Jeremy  always  had  breakfast  in  their  own 
rooms. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  awfully  late,"  said  Harry  cheerfully, 
clapping  his  brother  on  the  back  and  putting  his  hand  for 
a  minute  on  Robin's  shoulder ;  "  things  all  cold  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Garrett,  scarcely  looking  up  from  his 
morning  paper.     "  Damned  good  kidneys  !  " 

Robin  said  nothing.  He  was  watching  his  father  curi- 
ously.    It  was  one  of  the  Trojan  rules  that  you  never 


THE  WOODE^T  HORSE  31 

talked  at  breakfast;  it  was  such  an  impossible  meal  alto- 
gether, and  one  was  always  at  one's  worst  at  that  time  of 
the  morning.  Eobin  wondered  whether  his  father  would 
recognise  this  elementary  rule  or  whether  he  would  talk, 
talk,  talk,  as  he  had  done  last  night.  They  had  had  rather 
a  bad  time  last  night;  Aunt  Clare  had  had  a  headache, 
but  his  father  had  talked  continuously — about  sheep  and 
Maories  and  the  Pink  Terraces.  It  had  been  just  like  a 
parish-room  magic-lantern  lecture — "  Some  hours  with 
our  friends  the  Maories  " — it  had  been  very  tiring ;  poor 
Aunt  Clare  had  grown  whiter  and  whiter;  it  was  quite  a 
relief  when  dinner  had  come  to  an  end. 

Harry  helped  himself  to  kidneys  and  sat  down  by  Eobin, 
still  humming  the  refrain  of  the  Cornish  song  he  had 
heard  at  his  window.  "  By  Jove,  I'm  late — mustard, 
Eobin,  my  boy — can't  think  how  I  slept  like  that.  Why, 
in  l^ew  Zealand  I  was  always  up  with  the  lark — had  to 
be,  you  know,  there  was  always  such  heaps  to  do — the 
bread,  old  boy,  if  you  can  get  hold  of  it.  I  remember 
once  getting  up  at  three  in  the  morning  to  go  and  play 
cricket  somewhere — fearful  hot  day  it  was,  but  I  knocked 
up  fifty,  I  remember.  Probably  the  bowling  was  awfully 
soft,  although  I  remember  one  chap — Pulling,  friend  of 
Durand's — could  fairly  twist  'em  down  the  pitch — made 
you  damned  well  jump.  Talking  of  cricket,  I  suppose 
you  play,  Eobin  ?  Did  you  get  your  cap  or  whatever  they 
call  it — College  colours,  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  cricket !  "  said  Eobin  indifferently.  "  No,  I 
didn't  play.  The  chaps  at  King's  who  ran  the  games 
were  rather  outers — pretty  thoroughly  barred  by  the  de- 
cent men.  None  of  the  '  Gracchi '  went  in  for  the 
sports." 


32  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

"  Oh !  "  said  Harry,  considerably  surprised.  "  And 
who  the  deuce  are  the  '  Gracchi '  ?  " 

"  A  society  I  was  on,"  said  Robin,  a  little  wearily — it 
was  so  annoying  to  be  forced  to  talk  at  breakfast.  "  A 
literary  society — essays,  with  especial  attention  paid  to 
the  ISTew  Literature.  We  made  it  our  boast  that  we  never 
went  back  further  than  Meredith,  except,  of  course,  when 
one  had  to,  for  origins  and  comparisons.  Randal,  who's 
coming  to  stop  for  a  few  days,  was  president  last  year  and 
read  some  awfully  good  papers." 

Harry  stared  blankly.  He  had  thought  that  every  one 
played  cricket  and  football,  especially  when  they  were 
strong  and  healthy  like  Robin.  He  had  not  quite  under- 
stood about  the  society — and  who  was  Meredith  ?  "I 
shall  be  glad  to  meet  your  friend,"  he  said.  "  Is  he  still 
at  Cambridge  ? " 

"  Oh,  Randal !  "  said  Robin.  "  No,  he  came  down  the 
same  time  as  I  did.  He  only  got  a  second  in  History, 
although  he  was  worth  a  first  any  day  in  the  week.  But 
he  had  such  lots  of  other  things  to  do — his  papers  for  the 
*  Gracchi '  took  up  any  amount  of  time — and  then  history 
rather  bored  him.  He's  very  popular  here,  especially 
with  all  Fallacy  Street  people," 

"  The  Fallacy  Street  people !  "  repeated  Harry,  still 
more  bewildered.     "  Who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  suppose  you've  forgotten,"  said  Robin,  mildly 
surprised.  "  They're  all  the  people  who're  intellectual  in 
Pendragon.  If  you  live  in  Fallacy  Street  you're  one  of 
the  wits.  It's  like  belonging  to  the  '  Mermaid '  used  to 
be,  you  know,  in  Shakespeare's  time.  They're  really 
awfully  clever — some  of  them — the  Miss  Ponsonbys  and 


THE  WOODEK  HORSE  33 

Mrs.  Le  Terry — Aunt  Clare  thinks  no  end  of  Mrs.  Le 
Terry." 

Eobin's  voice  sounded  a  little  awed.  He  had  a  great 
respect  for  Fallacy  Street.  "  Oh,  they  won't  have  any 
place  for  me,"  said  Harry,  laughing.  "  I'm  an  awfully 
stupid  old  duffer.  I  haven't  read  anything  at  all,  except 
a  bit  of  Kipling — '  Barrack-room  Ballads  ' — seems  a 
waste  of  time  to  read  somehow." 

That  his  father  had  very  little  interest  in  literature 
Robin  had  discovered  sometime  before,  but  that  he  should 
boast  of  it — openly,  laughingly — was  really  rather  ter- 
rible. 

Harry  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes;  he  had  evidently 
made  rather  a  blunder  in  his  choice  of  a  subject,  but  it 
was  really  difficult. 

"  Where  are  we  going  this  morning,  Robin,  my  boy  ?  " 
he  said  at  last. 

'^  Oh !  I  say !  "  Robin  looked  a  little  unhappy.  "  I'm 
awfully  sorry,  father.  I'm  really  afraid  I  can't  come 
this  morning.  There's  a  box  of  books  that  have 
positively  got  to  get  off  to  Randal's  place  to-night.  I 
daren't  keep  them  any  longer.  I'd  do  it  this  afternoon, 
only  it's  Aunt  Clare's  at-home  day  and  she  always  likes 
me  to  help  her.  I'm  really  awfully  sorry,  but  there  are 
lots  of  other  mornings,  aren't  there  ?  I  simply  must  get 
those  books  off  this  morning." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  Harry  cheerfully ;  "  there's 
plenty  of  time." 

He  was  dreadfully  disappointed.  He  had  often 
thought  of  that  first  stroll  with  Robin.  They  would  dis- 
cuss the  changes  since  Harry's  day;  Robin  would  point 


34  THE  W00DE:N'  HORSE 

out  the  new  points  of  interest,  and,  perhaps,  introduce 
him  to  some  of  his  friends — it  had  been  a  favourite  pic- 
ture of  his  during  some  of  those  lonely  days  in  New  Zea- 
land. And  now  Robin's  aunt  and  college  friend  were  to 
come  before  his  father — it  was  really  rather  hard. 

But,  then,  on  second  thoughts,  how  unreasonable  it  was 
of  him  to  expect  to  take  up  Robin's  time  like  that.  He 
must  fall  into  the  ways  of  the  house,  quietly,  unobtrusively, 
with  none  of  that  jolting  of  other  people's  habits  and  regu- 
lar customs;  it  had  been  thoughtless  of  him  and  really 
ridiculous.     He  must  be  more  careful. 

Breakfast  ended,  he  found  himself  alone.  Robin  left 
the  room  with  the  preoccupied  air  of  a  man  of  fifty;  the 
difficulty  of  choosing  between  Jefferies'  "  Story  of  my 
Heart "  and  Walt  Whitman's  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  if  there 
wasn't  room  in  the  box  for  both,  was  terrible.  Of  course 
Randal  was  coming  himself  in  a  few  days,  and  it  would 
really  have  been  simpler  to  let  him  choose  for  himself; 
but  he  had  particularly  asked  for  them  to  be  sent  by  the 
fourth,  and  to-day  was  the  third.  Robin  had  quite  for- 
gotten his  father. 

Harry  was  alone.  From  the  garden  came  the  sound  of 
doves,  and,  through  the  window  that  overlooked  the  lawn, 
the  sun  shone  into  the  room.  Harry  lit  a  cigarette  and 
went  out.  The  garden  was  very  changed;  there  was  a 
feeling  of  order  and  authority  about  it  that  it  had  never 
had  before.  Not  a  weed  was  to  be  seen  on  the  paths: 
flowers  stretched  in  perfect  order  and  discipline;  colours 
in  harmony,  shapes  and  patterns  of  a  tutored  symmetry — 
it  was  the  perfection  of  a  modern  gardener's  art.  He 
passed  gardeners,  grave,  serious  men  with  eyes  intent  on 
their  work,  and  he  remembered  the  strange  old  man  who 


THE  WOODEIsT  HORSE  35 

had  watclied  over  the  garden  when  he  had  been  a  boy; 
an  old  man  with  a  wild  ragged  beard  and  a  skinny  hand 
like  the  Ancient  Mariner's.  The  garden  had  not  pros- 
pered under  his  care — it  had  been  wild,  undisciplined, 
tangled;  but  he  had  been  a  teller  of  wonderful  tales,  a 
seer  of  visions — it  was  to  him  that  Harry  had  owed  all 
the  intimate  knowledge  of  Cornish  lore  and  mystery  that 
he  possessed.  It  was  that  old  man  who  had  revealed  to 
him  the  secrets  that  are  known  to  Cornishmen  alone — 
secrets  that  are  not  for  the  ears  or  the  heart  of  the 
stranger. 

The  gardeners  that  were  there  now  were  probably  not 
Cornishmen  at  all — strangers,  Londoners  perhaps.  They 
could  watch  that  wonderful,  ever-changing  view  of  sea  and 
cliff  and  moor  without  any  beating  of  the  heart;  to  them 
the  crooked,  dusky  windings  of  the  Cove,  the  mighty  grey 
rocks  of  Trelennan's  Jump,  the  strange,  solemn  perma- 
nency of  the  four  grey  stones  on  the  moor,  were  as  noth- 
ing ;  their  hearts  were  probably  in  Peckham. 

He  turned  a  little  sadly  from  the  ordered  discipline  of 
the  garden;  the  shining  green  of  the  lawns,  the  blazing 
red  and  gold  of  its  flowers  almost  annoyed  him — it  was 
not  what  he  had  expected.  Then,  suddenly,  he  came  upon 
a  little  tangled  wood — a  strange,  deserted  place,  with  tall 
grasses  and  wild  ferns  and  a  little  brook  bubbling  noisily 
over  shining  white  and  grey  pebbles.  He  remembered  it ; 
how  well  he  remembered  it.  He  had  often  been  there  in- 
those  early  days.  He  had  tried  to  make  a  little  mill  in 
the  brook.  He  had  searched  there  for  some  of  those 
strange  creatures  about  whom  Tony  Tregoth,  the  old  gar- 
dener, had  told  him — fauns  and  nymphs  and  the  wild  god 
Pan.     He  had  never  found  anything;  but  its  wild,  dis- 


36  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

ordered  beauty  had  made  a  fitting  setting  for  Tony's  wild, 
disordered  legends. 

It  was  still  almost  exactly  as  it  had  been  twenty  years 
before;  no  one  had  attempted  improvement.  He  stayed 
there  for  some  time,  thinking,  regretting,  dreaming 
— it  was  the  only  part  of  the  garden  that  was  real  to  him. 

He  passed  down  the  avenue  and  out  through  the  white 
stone  gates  as  one  in  a  dream.     Something  was  stirring 
within  him.     It  was  not  that  he  had  forgotten  during 
those  years  in  New  Zealand.     He  had  longed  again  and 
again  with  a  passionate,  burning  longing  for  the  grey 
cliffs  and  the  sea  and  the  haunting  loneliness  of  the  moor ; 
for  the  Cornwall  that  he  had  loved  from  the  moment  of 
his  birth — no,  he  had  never  forgotten.     But  there  was 
waking  in  him  again  that  strange,  half-inherited  sense  of 
the  eternal  presence  of  ancient  days  and  old  heathen  cere- 
monies, and  the  manners  of  men  who  had  lived  in  that 
place  a  thousand  years  before.     He  had  known  it  when 
he  was  a  boy ;  when  he  had  chased  rabbits  over  the  moor, 
when  he  had  seen  the  mist  curling  mysteriously  from  the 
sea  and  wrapping  land  and  sky  in  a  blinding  curtain  of 
grey,    when    he    had    stood    on    Trelennan's    Jump    and 
watched  the  white,  savage  tossing  of  the  foam  hundreds 
of  feet  below ;  he  had  sometimes  fancied  that  he  saw  them, 
those  wild  bearded  priests  of  cruelty,  waiting  smilingly 
on  the  silent  twilit  moor  for  victims — they  had  always 
been  cruel  in  his  eyes;  something  terrible  in  the  very 
vagueness  of  their  outline. 

Now  the  old  thoughts  came  back  to  him,  and  he  almost 
fancied  that  he  could  see  the  strange  faces  in  the  shadows 
of  the  garden  and  feel  their  hot  breath  upon  his  cheek. 

His  passage  through  the  streets  of  Pendragon  woke  him 


THE  W00DE:N'  HOESE  37 

from  his  dreams;  its  almost  startling  modernity  and  ol> 
trusive  up-to-dateness  laughed  at  his  fancies.  It  was  very 
much  changed  since  he  had  been  there  before — like  the 
garden,  it  was  the  very  apotheosis  of  order  and  modern 
methods.  "  The  Pendragon  Hotel "  astonished  him  by 
its  stone  pillars,  its  glimpse  of  a  wonderful,  cool,  softly 
carpeted  hall,  its  official  in  gold  buttons  who  stood  sol- 
emnly magnificent  on  the  steps,  the  admiration  of  several 
small  boys  who  looked  up  into  his  face  with  wide-open 
eyes. 

Harry  remembered  the  old  "  Pendragon  Hotel,"  a  dirty, 
unmethodical  place,  with  beds  that  were  never  clean.  It 
had  been  something  of  a  scandal,  but  its  landlord  had 
been  an  amusing  fellow  and  a  capital  teller  of  stories. 

The  shops  dazzled  him  by  their  brilliance.  The  hair- 
dresser's displayed  a  wonderful  assortment  of  wigs  in  the 
window;  coloured  bottles  of  every  size  and  hue  glittered 
in  the  chemist's;  diamonds  flashed  in  the  jeweller's — the 
street  seemed  glorious  to  his  colonial  eyes. 

The  streets  were  not  very  crowded,  and  no  one  seemed 
to  be  in  a  hurry.  Auckland  had  been  rather  a  busy  little 
town — no  one  had  had  very  much  time  to  spare — but  here, 
under  the  mellow  September  sun,  people  lingered  and 
talked,  and  the  time  and  place  seemed  to  stand  still  with 
the  pleasant  air  of  something  restfuUy  comfortable,  and, 
above  all,  containing  nothing  that  wasn't  in  the  very  best 
taste.  It  was  this  air  of  polite  gentility  that  struck  Harry 
so  strongly.  It  had  never  been  like  that  in  the  old  days ; 
a  ragged,  unkempt  place  of  uncertain  manners  and  a  very 
evident  poverty.  He  rather  resented  its  new  polish,  and 
he  regretted  once  more  that  he  had  not  sought  a  London 
tailor  before  coming  down  to  Cornwall. 


38  THE  W00DE:N"  HORSE 

He  suddenly  recognised  a  face — a  middle-aged,  stout 
gentleman,  with  a  white  waistcoat  and  the  air  of  one  who 
had  managed  to  lead  a  virtuous  life  and,  nevertheless, 
accumulate  money;  he  was  evidently  satisfied  with  both 
achievements.  It  was  Barbour,  Bunny  Barbour.  He 
had  been  rather  a  good  chap  at  school,  with  some  taste 
for  adventure.  He  had  had  a  wider  horizon  than  most 
of  them ;  Harry  remembered  how  Bunny  had  envied  him 
in  'New  Zealand.  He  looked  prosperous  and  sedate  now, 
and  the  world  must  have  treated  him  well.  Harry  spoke 
to  him  and  was  received  with  effusion.  "  Trojan,  old 
man!  Well,  I  never!  I'm  damned  if  I'd  have  recog- 
nised you.  How  you've  changed!  I  heard  you  were 
coming  back;  your  boy  told  me — fine  chap  that,  Trojan, 
you've  every  reason  to  be  proud.  Well,  to  be  sure! 
Come  in  and  have  a  whisky  and  see  the  new  club-rooms ! 
Just  been  done  up,  and  fairly  knocks  spots  out  of  the  old 
place." 

He  was  extremely  cordial,  but  Harry  felt  that  he  was 
under  criticism.  Barbour's  eyes  looked  him  up  and 
down;  there  was  almost  a  challenge  in  his  glance,  as 
though  he  said,  "  We  are  quite  ready  to  receive  you  if  you 
are  one  of  us.  But  you  must  move  with  the  times.  It's 
no  good  for  you  to  be  the  same  as  in  the  old  days.  We've 
all  changed,  and  so  must  you !  " 

The  club  was  magnificent.  Harry  stared  in  amazement 
at  its  luxury  and  comfort.  Its  wonderful  armchairs  and 
soft  carpets,  its  decorations  and  splendid  space  astonished 
him.  The  old  place  had  seemed  rather  fine  to  him  as  a 
boy,  but  he  saw  now  how  bad  it  had  really  been.  He  sank 
into  one  of  the  armchairs  with  that  strange  sense  of  angry 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  39 

resentment  that  he  had  felt  before  in  the  street  gaining 
hotly  upon  him. 

"  It's  good,  isn't  it  ? "  said  Barbour,  smiling  with  an 
almost  personal  satisfaction,  as  though  he  had  been  largely 
responsible  for  the  present  improvements.  "  Don't  get 
places  like  this  out  in  JSTew  Zealand.  The  membership's 
going  up  like  anything,  and  we're  thinking  of  raising 
subscriptions.  Very  nice,  gentlemanly  set  of  fellows  on 
it,  too.  Oh !  we're  getting  along  splendidly  here.  You 
must  have  noticed  the  change  in  the  place !  " 

"  I  should  think  I  have,"  said  Harry — the  tone  of  his 
voice  was  a  little  regretful ;  "  but  it's  not  only  here — it's 
the  whole  place.  It's  smartened  up  beyond  all  knowing. 
But  I  must  confess  that,  dirty  and  dingy  as  they  were,  I 
regret  the  old  club-rooms.  There  was  something  extraor- 
dinarily homely  and  comfortable  about  them.  Do  you 
remember  that  old  armchair  with  the  hole  in  it  ?  Gone 
long  ago,  of  course,  but  I  shall  never  sit  in  anything  as 
nice  again." 

"Ah,  sentiment,"  said  Barbour,  smiling;  "you  w^on't 
find  much  of  it  in  Pendragon  nowadays.  It  doesn't  do. 
Sentimentalists  are  always  Tories,  you'll  find;  always 
wanting  to  keep  the  old  things,  and  all  against  progTess. 
We're  all  for  progress  now.  There  are  to  be  electric  trams 
next  year.  We've  got  some  capital  men  on  the  Town 
Council — Harding,  Belfast,  Eogers,  Snaith — you  won't  re- 
member them.  There's  some  talk  of  pulling  down  the 
Cove  and  building  new  lodging-houses  there.  We're 
crowded  out  in  the  summer,  and  there  are  more  people 
every  year." 

"  Pull  down  the  Cove  ?  "  said  Harry,  aghast ;  "  but  you 


40  THE  WOODED  HORSE 

can't.     It's  been  there  for  hundreds  of  years;  it's  one  of 
the  most  picturesque  places  in  CornwalL" 

"  That's  the  only  thing,"  said  Barbour  regretfully. 
"  It  acts  rather  well  as  a  draw  for  painters  and  that  sort 
of  person,  and  it  makes  some  pretty  picture  post-cards  that 
are  certain  to  sell.  Oh,  I  suppose  they'll  keej)  it  for  a  bit, 
but  it  will  have  to  go  ultimately.     Pendragon's  changing." 

There  was  no  doubt  that  it  was,  and  Harry  left  the 
club  some  quarter  of  an  hour  later  with  dismay  in  his 
heart.  He  had  dreamed  so  long  of  the  old  times,  the  old 
beauties,  the  old  quiet  spirit  of  unprogressive  content,  that 
this  new  eagerness  to  be  up-to-date  and  modern,  this  obvi- 
ous determination  to  make  Pendragon  a  watering-place 
of  the  most  detestable  kind,  horrified  him. 

As  he  passed  down  the  crooked,  uneven  stone  steps  that 
led  to  the  Cove,  he  felt  indignant,  almost  unhappy.  It 
was  as  if  a  friend  had  been  insulted  in  his  presence  and 
he  had  been  unable  to  defend  him.  They  said  that  the 
Cove  must  go,  must  make  way  for  modem  jerry-built 
lodging-houses,  in  order  that  middle-class  families  from 
London  and  Manchester  might  be  sufficiently  accommo- 
dated. 

The  Cove  had  meant  a  great  deal  to  him  when  a  boy — 
mystery,  romance,  pirates  and  smugglers,  strange  Cornish 
legends  of  saints  and  sinners,  knights  and  men-at-arms. 
The  little  inn,  "  The  Bended  Thumb,"  with  its  irregular, 
red-brick  floor  and  its  smoke-stained  oaken  rafters,  had 
been  the  theatre  of  many  a  stirring  drama — now  it  was 
to  be  pulled  down,  and  there  would  be  electric  trams.  It 
was  a  wonderfully  beautiful  morning,  and  the  little,  twist- 
ing street  of  the  Cove  seemed  to  dance  with  its  white  shin- 
ing cobbles  in  the  light  of  the  sun.     It  was  mysterious  as 


THE  WOODEK  HORSE  41 

ever,  but  colours  lingered  in  every  corner.  Purple  mists 
seemed  to  hang  about  the  dark  alleys  and  twisting  ways; 
golden  shafts  of  light  flashed  through  the  open  cottage  door- 
ways into  rooms  where  motes  of  dust  danced,  like  sprites, 
in  the  sun ;  smoke  rose  in  little  wreaths  of  pearl-grey  blue 
into  the  cloudless  sky;  there  was  perfect  stillness  in  the 
air,  and  from  an  overflowing  pail  that  stood  outside  "  The 
Bended  Thumb,"  the  clear  drip,  drip  of  the  water  could 
be  heard  falling  slowly  into  the  white  cobbles,  and  close 
at  hand  was  the  gentle  lap  of  the  sea,  as  it  ran  up  the 
little  shingly  beach  and  then  dragged  slowly  back  again 
with  a  soft,  reluctant  hiss. 

It  was  the  Cove  in  its  gentlest  mood.  ISTo  one  was 
about ;  the  women  were  preparing  the  dinner  and  the  men 
were  away  at  work.  No  strange  faces  peered  from  in- 
hospitable doorways;  there  was  nothing  to-day  that  could 
give  the  stranger  a  sense  of  outlawry,  of  almost  savage 
avoidance  of  ordinary  customs  and  manners.  Harry's 
heart  beat  wildly  as  he  walked  down  the  street ;  there  was 
no  change  here ;  it  was  as  he  had  left  it.  He  was  at  home 
here  as  he  could  never  be  in  that  new,  strident  Pendragon 
with  its  utter  disregard  of  tradition  and  beautv. 

He  saw  that  it  was  late  and  hurried  back.  He  had  dis- 
covered a  great  deal  during  the  morning. 

At  lunch  he  spoke  of  the  changes  that  he  had  seen. 
Clare  smiled.  "  Why,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  Twenty 
years  is  a  long  time,  and  Pendragon  has  made  great 
strides.  For  my  part,  I  am  very  glad.  It  brings  money 
to  the  shopkeepers,  and  the  place  will  be  quite  fashionable 
in  a  few  years'  time.  We're  all  on  the  side  of  progress  up 
here,"  she  added,  laughing. 

"  But  the  Cove  ?  "  said  Harry.     "  Barbour  tells  me  that 


42  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

they  are  thinking  of  pulling  it  down  to  make  way  for  lodg- 
ing-houses or  something." 

"  Well,  why  not  ?  "  said  Clare.  "  It  is  really  very 
much  in  the  way  where  it  is,  and  is,  I  am  told,  extremely 
unsanitary.  We  must  be  practical  nowadays  or  we  are 
nothing;  you  have  to  pay  heavily  for  being  romantic." 

Harry  felt  again  that  sensation  of  personal  affront  as 
though  some  close  friend,  bound  to  him  by  many  ties,  had 
been  attacked  violently  in  his  presence.  It  was  unrea- 
sonable, he  knew,  but  it  was  very  strong. 

"  And  you,  Eobin,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  think  of 
it?" 

'^  I  agree  with  Aunt  Clare,"  answered  Robin  lightly, 
as  though  it  were  a  matter  that  interested  him  very  little. 
"  If  the  place  is  in  the  way,  it  ought  to  go.  He's  a  sen- 
sible man,  Barbour." 

"  The  fact  is,  Harry,"  said  Garrett,  "  you  haven't 
changed  quite  as  fast  as  the  place  has.  You'll  see  the 
point  of  view  in  a  few  weeks'  time." 

He  felt  unreasonably,  ridiculously  angry.  They  were 
all  treating  him  as  a  child,  as  some  one  who  would  grow 
up  one  day  perhaps,  but  was,  at  present  at  any  rate,  im- 
mature in  thought  and  word;  even  with  Robin  there  was 
a  half-implied  superiority. 

"  But  the  Cove !  "  he  cried  vehemently.  "  Is  it  noth- 
ing to  any  of  you?  After  all  that  it  has  been  to  us  all 
our  lives,  to  our  people,  to  the  whole  place,  are  you  going 
to  root  it  out  and  destroy  it  simply  because  the  town  isn't 
quite  big  enough  to  put  up  all  the  trippers  that  burden  it 
in  the  summer  ?  Don't  you  see  what  you  will  lose  if  you 
do  ?     I  suppose  you  think  that  I  am  sentimental,  roman- 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  43 

tic,  but  upon  my  word  I  can't  see  that  you  have  im- 
proved Pendragon  very  much  in  all  these  twenty  years. 
It  was  charming  once — a  place  with  individuality,  inde- 
pendence; now  it  is  like  anywhere  else — a  miniature 
Brighton." 

He  knew  that  he  was  wasting  his  words.  There  was  a 
pause,  and  he  felt  that  they  were  all  three  laughing  at 
him — yes,  Robin  as  well.  He  had  only  made  a  fool  of 
himself;  they  could  not  understand  how  much  he  had  ex- 
pected during  those  weary  years  of  waiting — how  much 
he  had  expected  and  how  much  he  had  missed. 

Clare  looked  round  the  room  and  was  relieved  to  find 
that  only  Beldam  was  present.  If  one  of  the  family  was 
bent  on  being  absurd,  it  was  as  well  that  there  should  only 
be  one  of  the  servants  to  hear  him. 

"  You  know  that  you  are  to  be  on  your  trial  this  after- 
noon, Harry?  "  she  said. 

"  My  trial  ?  "  he  repeated,  bewildered. 

"Yes — it's  my  at-home  day,  you  know — first  Thurs- 
days— and,  of  course,  they'll  all  come  to  see  you.  We 
shall  have  the  whole  town — "  She  looked  at  him  a  little 
anxiously ;  so  much  depended  on  how  he  behaved,  and  she 
wasn't  completely  reassured  by  his  present  manner. 

If  he  astonished  them  all  this  afternoon  by  saying 
things  about  the  Cove  like  that,  it  would  be  too  terrible. 

"  How  horrible !  "  he  said,  laughing.  "  I'm  very  much 
afraid  that  I  shan't  do  you  justice,  Clare.  I'm  no  good 
at  small  conversation." 

His  treating  it  so  lightly  made  it  worse,  and  she  won- 
dered how  she  could  force  him  to  realise  the  seriousness 
of  it. 


44  THE  woode::^^  hoese 

"  All  the  best  people  in  Pendragon,"  she  said ;  "  the 
nicest,  that  is,  and  they  are  really  rather  ridiculously 
critical,  and  of  course  they  talk." 

He  looked  at  her  and  laughed.  "  I  wish  they  were 
Maories,"  he  said,  "  I  shouldn't  be  nearly  so  frightened !  " 

She  leant  over  the  table  to  emphasise  her  words.  "  But 
it  really  does  make  a  difference,  Harry.  First  impres- 
sions count  a  lot.     You'll  be  nice  to  them,  won't  you  ?  " 

The  laugh  had  left  his  eyes.  It  was  serious,  as  he 
knew.  He  had  had  no  idea  that  he  would  have,  so  to 
speak,  "  funked  "  it  so.  It  was  partly,  of  course,  because 
of  Eobin.  He  did  not  want  to  make  a  fool  of  himself 
before  the  boy.  He  was  already  beginning  to  realise 
what  were  the  things  that  counted  with  Robin. 

The  real  j)athos  of  the  situation  lay  in  his  terrible  anx- 
iety to  do  the  right  thing.     If  he  had  taken  it  quietly, 
had  trusted  to  his  natural  discretion  and  had  left  circum- 
stances to  develop  of  themselves,  he  would  have,  at  any 
rate,   been  less   self-conscious.     But  he  could  not  let  it 
alone.     He  had  met  Auckland  society  often  enough  and 
had,  indeed,  during  his  later  years,  been  something  of  a  \ 
society  man,   but   there  everything  was   straightforward    ) 
and  simple.     There  was  no  tradition,  no  convention,  no   / 
standard.     Because  other  people  did  a  thing  was  no  reason    - 
why  you  should  do  it — originality  was  welcomed  rather 
than  otherwise.     But  here  there  were  so  many  things  that 
you  must  do,  and  so  very,  very  many  that  you  mustn't; 
and  if  you  were  a  Trojan,  matters  were  still  more  compli- 
cated. 

It  was  after  half-past  four  when  he  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  Clare  was  pouring  out  tea.  Five  or  six 
ladies  were  already  there,  and  a  clerg^onan  of  ample  pro- 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  45 

portions  and  quite  beautifully  brushed  hair.  He  was  in- 
troduced— "  Mrs.  le  Terry — Miss  Ponsonby — Miss  Lucy 
Ponsonby — Miss  Werrel — Miss  Thisbe  Werrel — Mr. 
Carrell — our  rector,  Harry." 

He  shook  hands  and  was  terribly  embarrassed.  He  was 
conscious  at  once  of  that  same  sense  of  challenge  that  he 
had  felt  with  Barbour  in  the  morning.  They  were  not 
obviously  staring,  but  he  knew  that  they  were  rapidly 
summing  him  up.  He  coloured  foolishly,  and  stood  for  a 
moment  awkwardly  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Tea,  Harry  ?  "  said  Clare.  "  Scones  down  by  the 
fire.  Everybody  else  is  all  right — so  look  after  your- 
self." 

He  found  himself  by  Mrs.  le  Terry,  a  small,  rather 
pretty  woman  with  wide-open  blue  eyes,  and  a  mass  of 
dark  brown  hair  hidden  beneath  a  large  black  hat  that 
drooped  over  one  ear.  She  talked  rapidly  and  with  few 
pauses.  She  was,  he  discovered,  one  of  those  persons 
whose  conversation  was  a  series  of  exclamation  marks. 
She  was  perpetually  astonished,  delighted,  and  disap- 
pointed with  an  amount  of  emotion  that  left  her  no 
breath  and  gave  her  hearers  a  small  opinion  of  her  sin- 
cerity. "  It's  too  terribly  funny,"  she  said,  opening  her 
eyes  very  wide  indeed,  "  that  you  should  have  been  in  that 
amazing  place,  New  Zealand — all  sheep  and  Maories,  isn't 
it? — and  if  there's  one  thing  that  I  should  be  likely  to 
detest  more  than  mutton  I'm  sure  it  would  be  Maories. 
Too  dreadful  and  terrible !  But  you  look  splendidly  well, 
Mr.  Trojan.  I  never,  really  never,  saw  any  one  with 
such  a  magnificent  colour !  I  suppose  that  it's  really  that 
gorgeous  sun,  and  it  never  rains,  does  it  ?  Too  delight- 
ful !     If  there's  one  thing  that  I  do  adore,  it's  the  sun !  " 


46  THE  WOODEI^T  HORSE 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that/'  said  Harrj,  laughing; 
"  we  had  rain  pretty  often  in  Auckland,  and " 

"  Oh,  really,"  she  said,  breaking  in  upon  him,  "  that's 
too  curious,  because,  do  you  know,  I  thought  you  never 
had  rain  at  all,  and  I  do  detest  rain  so.  It's  too  distress- 
ing when  one  has  a  new  frock  or  must  go  to  some  stupid 
place  to  see  some  one.  But  I'm  too  awfully  glad  that 
you've  come  here,  Mr.  Trojan.  We  do  want  waking  up  a 
little,  you  know,  and  I'm  sure  you're  the  very  person  to 
do  it.  It  would  be  too  funny  if  you  were  to  wake  us  all 
up,  you  know." 

Harry  was  pleased.  There  were  no  difficulties  here,  at 
any  rate.  Hadn't  Robin  mentioned  Mrs.  le  Terry  as  one 
of  the  leaders  of  Fallacy  Street  ?  He  suddenly  lost  his 
shyness  and  wanted  to  become  confidential.  He  would 
tell  her  how  glad  he  was  to  be  back  in  England  again; 
how  anxious  he  was  to  enter  into  all  the  fun  and  to  take 
his  part  in  all  the  work.  He  wondered  what  she  felt 
about  the  Cove,  and  he  hoped  that  she  would  be  an  enemy 
to  its  proposed  destruction. 

But  she  yielded  him  no  opportunity  of  speaking,  and 
he  speedily  discovered  her  opinion  on  the  Cove.  "  And 
such  changes  since  you  went  away !  Quite  another  place, 
I'm  glad  to  say.  Pendragon  is  the  sweetest  little  town, 
and  even  the  dear,  dirty  trippers  in  the  summer  are  the 
most  delightful  and  amusing  people  you  ever  saw.  And 
now  that  they  talk  of  pulling  down  that  horrid,  dirty  old 
Cove,  it  will  be  too  splendid,  with  lodging-houses  and  a 
bandstand ;  and  they  do  talk  of  an  Esplanade — that  would 
be  too  delightful !  " 

While  she  was  speaking,  he  watched  the  room  curi- 
ously.    Robin  had  come  in  and  was  standing  by  the  fire- 


THE  WOODEI:^  HORSE  47 

place  talking  to  the  Miss  "Werrels,  two  girls  of  the  athletic 
tyjDe,  with  short  skirts  and  their  hair  brushed  tightly  back 
over  their  foreheads.  He  was  leaning  with  one  arm  on 
the  mantelpiece,  and  was  looking  down  on  the  ladies  with 
an  air  of  languid  interest;  his  eyes  were  restless,  and 
every  now  and  again  glanced  towards  his  father.  The 
two  Miss  Ponsonbys  were  massive  ladies  of  any  age  over 
fifty.  Clad  in  voluminous  black  silk,  with  several  little 
reticules  and  iron  chains,  their  black  hair  bound  in 
tight  coils  at  the  back  of  their  heads,  each  holding  stiiSy 
her  teacup  with  a  tenacity  that  was  worthy  of  a  better 
cause,  they  were  awe-inspiring  and  militant.  In  spite  of 
their  motionless  gravity,  there  was  something  aggressive 
in  their  frowning  brows  and  cold,  expressionless  eyes. 
Harry  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  two  more  terrifying 
persons.  Clare  was  talking  to  the  prosperous  clergyman ; 
he  smiled  continually,  and  now  and  again  laughed  in  reply 
to  some  remark,  but  it  was  always  something  restrained 
and  carefully  guarded.  He  was  obviously  a  man  who 
laid  great  store  by  exterior  circumstances.  That  the 
sepulchre  should  be  filled  with  dead  men's  bones  might 
cause  him  pain,  but  that  it  should  be  unwhitened  would 
be,  to  him,  a  thing  far  more  terrible. 

Clare  turned  round  and  addressed  the  room  generally. 

"  Mr.  Carroll  has  just  been  telling  me  of  the  shocking 
state  of  the  Cove,"  she  said.  "  Insanitary  isn't  the  word, 
apparently.  Things  have  gone  too  far,  and  the  only  wise 
measure  seems  to  be  to  root  the  place  up  completely.  It 
is  sad,  of  course — it  was  a  pretty  old  place,  but  it  has  had 
its  day." 

"  I've  just  been  telling  your  brother  about  it,  Miss 
Trojan,"  said  Mrs.  le  Terry.     "  It's  quite  too  terrible, 


48  THE  WOODEIT  HORSE 

and  I'm  sure  it's  very  bad  for  all  of  us  to  have  anything 
quite  so  horrible  so  close  to  our  houses.  There's  no  knov\;^- 
ing  what  dreadful  things  we  may  not  all  of  us  be  catching 
at  this  very  moment " 

She  was  interrupted  by  two  new  arrivals — Mrs.  and 
Miss  Bethel.  They  were  a  curious  contrast.  The  mother 
was  the  strangest  old  lady  that  Harry  had  ever  seen.  She 
was  tiny  in  stature,  with  snow-white  hair  and  cheeks  that 
were  obviously  rouged;  she  wore  a  dress  of  curious  shot 
silk  decorated  with  much  lace,  and  her  fingers  were  thick 
with  jewels;  a  large  hat  with  great  purple  feathers  waved 
above  her  head.  It  was  a  fantastic  and  rather  gaudy  im- 
pression that  she  made,  and  there  was  something  rather 
pitiful  in  the  contrast  between  her  own  obvious  satisfac- 
tion with  her  personal  appearance  and  the  bizarre,  almost 
vulgar,  effect  of  such  strangely  contrasted  colours.  She 
came  mincing  into  the  room  with  her  head  a  little  on  one 
side,  but  in  spite  of,  or  perhaps  because  of,  her  rather 
anxious  smiles,  it  was  obvious  that  she  was  not  altogether 
at  her  ease. 

The  girl  who  followed  her  was  very  different.  Tall 
and  very  dark,  she  was  clothed  quite  simply  in  brown; 
her  hair  was  wonderful,  although  it  was  at  present  hidden 
to  some  extent  by  her  hat,  but  its  coal-black  darkness  had 
something  intent,  almost  luminous,  about  it,  so  that,  para- 
doxically, its  very  blackness  held  hidden  lights  and  col- 
ours. But  it  was  her  manner  that  Harry  especially  no- 
ticed. She  followed  her  mother  with  a  strange  upright 
carriage  of  the  head  and  flash  of  the  eyes  that  were  almost 
defiant.  She  was  evidently  expecting  no  very  civil  recep- 
tion, and  she  seemed  to  face  the  room  with  hostility  and 
no  very  ready  eagerness  to  please. 


THE  W00DE:N'  HOESE  49 

The  effect  on  the  room  was  marked.  Mrs.  le  Terry 
stopped  speaking  for  a  moment  and  rustled  her  skirts 
with  a  movement  of  displeasure,  the  Miss  Ponsonbys 
clutched  their  teacups  even  tighter  than  before  and  their 
brows  became  more  clouded,  the  Miss  Werrels  smiled  con- 
fidentially at  each  other  as  though  they  shared  some  secret, 
and  even  Robin  made  a  slight  instinctive  movement  of  dis- 
pleasure. 

Harry  felt  at  once  an  impulse  of  sympathy  towards  the 
girl.  It  was  almost  as  if  this  sudden  hostility  had  made 
them  friends :  he  liked  that  independence  of  her  carriage, 
the  pride  in  her  eyes.  Mrs.  le  Terry's  voice  broke  upon 
his  ears. 

"Which  must  be,  Mr.  Trojan,  extraordinarily  provok- 
ing. To  go  there,  I  mean,  and  find  absolutely  no  one  in 
— all  that  way,  too,  and  a  horribly  wet  night,  and  no  train 
until  nine  o'clock.'^ 

In  his  endeavours  to  pick  up  the  thread  of  the  conver- 
sation he  lost  sight  of  their  meeting  with  Clare. 

She,  indeed,  had  greeted  them  with  all  the  Trojan  cold- 
ness; nothing  could  have  been  more  sternly  formal  than 
her  "  Ah !  Mrs.  Bethel,  I'm  so  glad  that  you  were  able  to 
come.  So  good  of  you  to  trouble  to  call.  Won't  you  have 
some  tea?  Do  find  a  seat  somewhere,  Miss  Bethel.  I 
hope  you  won't  mind  our  all  having  finished." 

Harry  was  introduced  and  took  them  their  tea.  It  was 
obvious  that,  for  some  reason  unknown  to  him,  their  pres- 
ence there  was  undesired  by  all  the  company  present,  in- 
cluding Clare  herself.  He  also  knew  instinctively  that 
their  coming  there  had  been  some  act  of  daring  bravery, 
undertaken  perhaps  with  the  hope  that,  after  all,  it  might 
not  be  as  they  had  feared. 


50  THE  WOODEN"  HORSE 

The  old  lady's  hand  trembled  as  she  took  her  teacup; 
the  colour  had  fled  from  her  face,  and  she  sat  there  white 
and  shaking.  As  Harry  bent  over  her  with  the  scones, 
he  saw  to  his  horror  that  a  tear  was  trembling  on  her  eye- 
lid ;  her  throat  was  moving  convulsively. 

At  the  same  instant  he  knew  that  the  girl's  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  his;  he  saw  them  imploring,  beseeching  him 
to  help  them.  It  was  a  difficult  situation,  but  he  smiled 
back  at  the  girl  and  turned  to  the  old  lady. 

"  Do  try  these  scones,  Mrs.  Bethel  ?  "  he  said ;  "  they 
are  still  hot  and  I  can  recommend  them  strongly.  I'm  so 
glad  to  meet  you ;  my  sister  told  me  only  this  morning 
that  she  hoped  you  would  come  this  afternoon,  as  she 
wanted  us  to  become  acquainted." 

It  was  a  lie,  but  he  spoke  it  without  hesitation,  knowing 
that  it  would  reach  Clare's  ears.  The  little  lady  smiled 
nervously  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Trojan,"  she  said,  "it's  very  good  of  you, 
I'm  sure.  We  are  only  too  delighted.  It's  not  much 
gaiety  that  we  can  offer  you  here,  but  such  as  it  is " 

She  was  actually  making  eyes  at  him,  the  preposterous 
old  person.  It  was  really  a  little  pitiful,  with  her  gor- 
geous colours,  and  her  trembling  assumption  of  a  coquet- 
tish youth  that  had  left  her  long  ago.  Her  attempt  to 
storm  a  difficult  position  by  the  worst  of  all  possible  tac- 
tics made  him  extremely  sorry  for  the  daughter,  who  was 
forced  to  look  on  in  silence.  His  thoughts,  indeed,  were 
with  the  girl — her  splendid  hair,  her  eyes,  something  wild, 
almost  rebellious,  that  found  a  kindred  note  in  himself; 
curiously,  almost  absurdly,  they  were  to  a  certain  degree 
allies  although  they  had  not  spoken.  He  talked  to  her 
a  little  and  she  mentioned  the  Cove. 


THE  WOODEI^  HORSE  51 

"  It  is  a  test  of  your  Cornisli  ancestry/'  slie  said — "  if 
you  care  for  it,  I  mean.  So  many  people  liere  look  on  it 
as  a  kind  of  rubbish-lieap — picturesque  but  untidy — and 
it  is  tbe  most  beautiful  place  in  the  world." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  feel  like  that,"  he  said  quietly ; 
"  it  meant  a  lot  to  me  as  a  boy.  I  have  been  sorry  to  find 
how  unpopular  it  is  now;  but  I  see  that  it  still  has  its 
supporters." 

"  Ah,  you  must  talk  to  father,"  she  said.  "  He  is  al- 
ways there.     We  are  a  little  old-fashioned,  I'm  afraid." 

There  was  in  her  voice,  in  her  smile,  something  that 
stirred  him  strangely.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  met  her 
before — a  long  while  ago.  He  recognised  little  character- 
istics, the  way  that  she  pushed  back  her  hair  when  she 
was  excited,  the  beautiful  curve  of  her  neck  when  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  his,  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom — it 
was  all  strangely,  individually  familiar,  as  though  he  had 
often  watched  her  do  the  same  things  in  the  same  way 
before,  in  some  other  place.  .  .  . 

He  had  forgotten  the  others — Clare,  Robin,  the  Miss 
Ponsonbys,  Mrs.  le  Terry;  and  when  they  had  all  gone, 
he  did  not  realise  that  he  had  in  any  way  neglected  them. 

After  Miss  Bethel  had  left  the  room,  followed  by  the 
preposterous  old  mother,  he  stood  at  the  window  watching 
the  lights  of  the  town  shining  mistily  through  the  black 
network  of  trees  in  the  drive.     He  must  meet  her  again. 

Clare  spoke  to  him  and  he  turned  round.  "  I'm  afraid 
you  have  made  the  Miss  Ponsonbys  enemies  for  life,"  she 
said ;  "  you  never  spoke  to  them  once.  I  warned  you  that 
they  were  the  most  important  people  in  the  place." 

"  Oh !  the  Miss  Ponsonbys !  "  said  Harry  carelessly,  and 
Robin  stood  amazed. 


CHAPTER  III 

ROBIN'S  roomSj  charming  as  they  were,  with  their 
wide  windows  opening  on  to  tossing  sea  and  the 
sharp  bend  of  the  grey  cliffs  stretching  to  distant  hori- 
zons, suffered  from  overcrowding. 

His  sitting-room,  with  its  dark  red  wallpaper  and  sev- 
eral good  prints  framed  in  dark  oak — Burne-Jones' 
"  Study  for  Cupid's  Masque,"  Hunt's  "  Hireling  Shep- 
herd," and  Whistler's  "  Battersea  Bridge  "  were  the  best 
— might  have  been  delightful  had  ho  learned  to  select; 
but  at  the  present  stage  in  his  development  he  hated  re- 
jecting anything  as  long  as  it  reached  a  certain  standard. 
His  appreciations  were  wide  and  generous,  and  his  knowl- 
edge was  just  now  too  superficial  to  permit  of  discerning 
criticism.  The  room,  again,  suffered  from  a  rather  ef- 
feminate prettiness.  There  were  too  many  essentially 
trivial  knick-knacks — some  fans,  silver  ornaments,  a 
charming  little  ebony  clock,  and  a  generous  assortment 
of  gay,  elegantly  worked  cushions.  The  books,  too,  were 
all  in  handsome  editions — Meredith  in  green  leather  with 
a  gold- worked  monogram,  Pater  in  red  haK-morocco, 
Swinburne  in  light-blue  with  red  and  gold  tooling — rich 
and  to  some  extent  unobtrusive,  but  reiterating  unmistak- 
ably the  first  impression  that  the  room  had  given,  the 
mark  of  something  superficial. 

Robin  was  there  now,  dressing  for  dinner.  He  often 
dressed  in  his  sitting-room,  because  his  books  were  there. 

52 


THE  W00DE:N"  HOESE  53 

He  liked  to  open  a  book  for  a  moment  before  fitting  bis 
studs  into  liis  sbirt,  and  bow  cbarming  to  read  a  verse  of 
Swinburne  before  brusbing  bis  bair — not  so  mucb  because 
of  tbe  Swinburne,  but  ratber  because  one  went  down  to 
dinner  witb  a  pleasant  feeling  of  culture  and  education. 
To-nigbt  be  was  in  a  burry.  People  bad  stayed  so  late 
for  tea  (it  was  still  tbe  day  after  bis  fatber's  arrival), 
and  be  bad  to  be  at  tbe  otber  end  of  tbe  town  by  balf-past 
seven.  Wbat  a  nuisance  going  out  to  dinner  was,  and 
bow  be  wisbed  be  wasn't  going  to-nigbt. 

Tbe  fact  tbat  tbe  dinner  promised,  in  all  probability, 
to  afford  sometbing  of  a  situation  did  not,  as  was  often 
tbe  case,  give  bim  very  mucb  satisfaction.  Indeed  it  was 
tbe  reverse.  Tbe  situation  was  going  to  be  extremely  un- 
pleasant, and  tbere  was  every  likelibood  tbat  Eobin  would 
look  a  fool.  Robin's  education  bad  been  a  continuous 
insistence  on  tbe  importance  of  superficiality.  It  bad 
been  enforced  wbile  be  was  still  in  tbe  cradle,  wben  a  de- 
sire to  kick  and  figbt  bad  been  always  cbecked  by  tbe 
quiet  reiteration  tbat  it  was  not  a  tiling  tbat  a  Trojan  did. 
Temper  was  not  a  fault  of  itself,  but  an  exbibition  of  it 
was;  simply  because  self-control  was  a  Trojan  virtue. 
At  bis  private  scbool  be  was  taugbt  tbe  great  code  of 
brusbing  one's  bair  and  leaving  the  bottom  button  of  one's 
waistcoat  undone.  Robbery,  murder,  rape — well,  tbey 
bad  all  played  tbeir  part  in  tbe  Trojan  history;  but  the 
art  of  shaking  bands  and  tbe  correct  method  of  snubbing 
a  poor  relation,  if  properly  acquired,  covered  tbe  crimes 
of  tbe  Decalogue. 

It  was  not  that  Robin,  either  then  or  afterwards,  was  a 
snob.  He  thought  no  more  of  a  duke  or  a  viscount  than 
of  a  plain  commoner,  but  be  learnt  at  once  tbe  lesson  of 


54  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

"  Us — and  the  Others."  If  you  were  one  of  the  others — 
if  there  was  a  hesitation  about  your  aspirates,  if  you  used 
a  spoon  and  fork  for  sweets,  if  you  wore  a  tail-coat  and 
brown  boots — then  you  were  non-existent,  you  simply  did 
not  count. 

When  he  left  Eton  for  Cambridge,  this  Code  of  the 
Quite  Correct  Thing  advanced  beyond  the  art  of  Perfect 
Manners;  it  extended  to  literature  and  politics,  and,  in 
fact,  everything  of  any  importance.  He  soon  discovered 
what  were  the  things  for  "  Us  "  to  read,  whom  were  the 
painters  for  "  Us  "  to  admire,  and  what  were  the  politics 
for  ''  Us  "  to  applaud.  He  read  Pater  and  Swinburne 
and  Meredith,  Bernard  Shaw  and  Galsworthy  and  Joseph 
Conrad,  and  had  quite  definite  ideas  about  all  of  them. 
He  admired  Rickett's  stage  effects,  and  thought  Sholto 
Douglas's  portraits  awfully  clever,  and,  of  course,  Max's 
Caricatures  were  masterly.  I'm  not  saying  that  he  did 
not  really  admire  these  things — in  many  things  his  appre- 
ciation was  genuine  enough — but  if  it  should  happen  that 
he  cared  for  "  The  Christian  "  or  "  God's  Good  Man," 
he  speedily  smothered  his  admiration  and  wondered  how 
he  could  be  such  a  fool.  To  do  him  justice,  he  never  had 
any  doubt  that  those  whose  judgment  he  followed  were 
absolutely  right ;  but  he  followed  them  blindly,  often 
praising  books  or  pictures  that  he  had  never  read  or  seen 
because  it  was  the  thing  to  do.  He  read  quite  clever 
papers  to  "  The  Gracchi "  at  Cambridge,  but  the  most 
successful  of  all,  "  The  Philosophy  of  JSTine-pins  accord- 
ing to  Bernard  Shaw,"  was  written  before  he  had  either 
seen  or  read  any  of  that  gentleman's  plays.  He  was,  in 
fact,  in  great  danger  of  developing  into  a  kind  of  walking 
Rapid  Review  of  other  people's  judgments  and  opinions. 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  55 

He  examined  nothing  for  himself;  his  standard  of  the 
things  to  be  attained  in  this  world  was  fixed  and  unalter- 
able; to  have  an  unalterable  standard  at  twenty-one  is  to 
condemn  oneself  to  folly  for  life. 

And  now,  as  he  was  dressing  for  dinner,  two  things 
occupied  his  mind :  firstly,  his  father ;  in  the  second  jilace, 
the  situation  that  he  was  to  face  in  half-an-hour's  time. 

With  regard  to  his  father,  Robin  was  terribly  afraid 
that  he  was  one  of  the  Others.  He  had  had  his  sus- 
picions from  the  first — that  violent  entry,  the  loud  voice 
and  the  hearty  laugh,  the  bad-fitting  clothes,  and  the  per- 
petual chatter  at  dinner ;  it  had  all  been  noisy,  unusual, 
even  a  little  vulgar.  But  his  behaviour  at  tea  that  after- 
noon had  grieved  Robin  very  much.  How  could  he  be  so 
rude  to  the  light  and  leading  of  Fallacy  Street  ?  It  could 
only  have  been  through  ignorance ;  it  could  only  have 
been  because  he  really  did  not  know  how  truly  great  the 
Miss  Ponsonbys  were.  But,  then,  to  spend  all  his  time 
with  the  Bethels,  strange,  odd  people,  with  the  queerest 
manners  and  an  uncertain  history,  whom  Eallacy  Street 
had  decided  to  cut ! 

N^o,  Robin  was  very  much  afraid  that  his  father  must 
be  ranked  with  the  Others.  He  had  not  expected  very 
much  after  all ;  New  Zealand  must  be  a  strange  place  on 
all  accounts ;  but  his  father  seemed  to  show  no  desire  to 
improve,  he  seemed  quite  happy  and  contented,  and 
scarcely  realised,  apparently,  the  seriousness  of  his  mis- 
takes. 

But,  after  all,  the  question  of  his  father  was  a  very 
minor  affair  as  compared  with  the  real  problem  that  he 
must  answer  that  evening.  Robin  had  met  Dahlia  Fev- 
erel  in  the  summer  of  the  preceding  year  at  Cambridge. 


56  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

He  had  tliouglit  her  extremely  beautiful  and  very  fas- 
cinating. Most  of  his  college  friends  had  ladies  whom 
they  adored ;  it  was  considered  quite  a  thing  to  do — and 
so  Robin  adored  Dahlia. 

ISTo  one  knew  anything  about  the  Feverels.  The 
mother  was  kept  in  the  background  and  the  father  was 
dead — there  was  really  only  Dahlia;  and  when  Robin 
was  with  her  he  never  thought  of  questioning  her  as  to 
antecedents  of  earlier  history.  Eor  two  months  he  loved 
her  passionately,  chiefly  because  he  saw  her  very  seldom. 
When  he  went  down  at  the  end  of  the  summer  term  he 
felt  that  she  was  the  only  thing  in  the  world  worth  living 
for.  He  became  Byronic,  scowled  at  Aunt  Clare,  and 
treated  Garrett's  cynicism  with  contempt.  He  wrote 
letters  to  her  every  day  full  of  the  deepest  sentiments  and 
a  great  deal  of  amazingly  bad  poetry.  Clare  wondered 
what  was  the  matter,  but  asked  no  questions,  and  was  in- 
deed far  too  firmly  convinced  of  the  efficacy  of  the  Trojan 
system  to  have  any  fears  of  mental  or  moral  danger. 

Then  Miss  Feverel  made  a  mistake;  she  came  with  her 
mother  to  stay  at  Pendragon.  For  the  first  week  Robin 
was  blissfully  happy — then  he  began  to  wonder.  The 
best  people  in  Pendragon  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  Feverels.  Aunt  Clare,  unaware  that  they  were 
friends  of  Robin's,  pronounced  them  "  commonly  vulgar." 
The  mother  was  more  in  evidence  than  she  had  been  at 
Cambridge,  and  Robin  passed  from  dislike  to  horror  and 
from  horror  to  hatred.  Dahlia,  too,  seemed  to  have 
changed.  Robin  had  loved  her  too  passionately  hitherto 
to  think  of  the  great  Division.  But  soon  he  began  to 
wonder.  There  were  certain  things — little  unimportant 
trifles,  of  course — that  made  him  rather  uneasy ;  he  began 


THE  WOODEIT  HOESE  57 

to  have  a  horrible  suspicion  that  she  was  one  of  the 
Others;  and  then^  once  the  suspicion  was  admitted,  proof 
after  proof  came  forward  to  turn  it  into  certainty. 

How  horrible,  and  what  an  escape!  His  visits  to  the 
little  lodging-house  overlooking  the  sea  where  Dahlia 
played  the  piano  so  enchantingly,  and  Mrs.  Feverel,  a 
solemn,  rather  menacing  figure,  played  silently  and 
mournfully  continuous  Patience,  were  less  and  less  fre- 
quent. He  was  determined  to  break  the  matter  off;  it 
haunted  his  dreams,  it  troubled  him  all  day;  he  was 
forced  to  keep  his  acquaintanceship  with  them  secret,  and 
was  in  perpetual  terror  lest  Aunt  Clare  should  discover 
it.  He  had  that  most  depressing  of  unwished-for  pos- 
sessions, a  skeleton ;  its  cupboard-door  swung  creakingly 
in  the  wind,  and  its  bones  rattled  in  his  ears. 

1^0,  the  thing  must  come  to  an  end  at  once,  and  com- 
pletely. They  had  invited  him  to  dinner  and  he  had  ac- 
cepted, meaning  to  use  the  occasion  for  the  contemplated 
separation.  He  had  thought  often  enough  of  what  he 
would  say — words  that  had  served  others  many  times  be- 
fore in  similar  situations.  He  would  refer  to  their  youth, 
the  affair  should  be  a  midsummer  episode,  pleasant  to 
look  back  upon  when  they  were  both  older  and  married  to 
more  worthy  partners;  he  would  be  a  brother  to  her  and 
she  should  be  a  sister  to  him — but,  thank  God  for  his 
escape ! 

He  believed  that  the  Trojan  traditions  would  carry  him 
through.  He  was  not  quite  sure  what  she  would  do — 
cry  probably,  and  remonstrate;  but  it  would  soon  be  over 
and  he  would  be  at  peace  once  more. 

He  dressed  slowly  and  with  his  usual  care.  It  would 
be  easier  to  speak  with  authority  if  there  was  no  doubt 


58  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

about  his  appearance.  He  decided  to  walk,  and  he  passed 
through  the  garden  into  the  town,  his  head  a  buzzing  repe- 
tition of  the  words  that  he  meant  to  saj.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful evening;  a  soft  mist  hid  the  moon's  sharper  outline, 
but  she  shone,  a  vague  circlet  of  light  through  a  little 
fleet  of  fleecy  white  cloud.  Although  it  was  early  in  Sep- 
tember, some  of  the  trees  were  beginning  to  change  their 
dark  green  into  faint  gold,  and  the  sharp  outline  of  their 
leaves  stood  out  against  the  grey  pearl  light  of  the  sky. 
As  he  passed  into  the  principal  street  of  Pendragon, 
Robin  drew  his  coat  closer  about  him,  like  some  ancient 
conspirator.  He  had  no  wish  to  be  stopped  by  an  in- 
quisitive friend ;  his  destination  demanded  secrecy.  Soon 
the  lights  and  asphalt  of  the  High  Street  gave  place  to 
dark,  twisting  paths  and  cobbled  stones.  These  obscure 
and  narrow  ways  were  rather  pathetic  survivals  of  the 
old  Pendragon.  At  night  they  had  an  almost  sinister  ap- 
pearance; the  lamps  were  at  very  long  intervals  and  the 
old  houses  leaned  over  the  road  with  a  certain  crazy  pic- 
turesqueness  that  was,  at  the  same  time,  exceedingly  dan- 
gerous. There  were  few  lights  in  the  windows  and  very 
few  pedestrians  on  the  cobbles;  the  muffled  roar  of  the 
sea  sounded  close  at  hand.  And,  indeed,  it  sprang  upon 
you  quite  mag-nificently  at  a  turn  of  the  road.  To-night 
it  scarcely  moved;  a  ripple  as  the  waves  licked  the  sand, 
a  gentle  rustle  as  of  trees  in  the  wind  when  the  pebbles 
were  dragged  back  with  the  ebb — that  was  all.  It  seemed 
strangely  mysterious  under  the  misty,  imcertain  light  of 
the  moon. 

The  houses  facing  the  sea  loomed  up  darkly  against 
the  horizon — a  black  contrast  with  the  grey  of  sea  and 
sky.     It  was  No.  4  where  the  Feverels  lived.     There  was 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  59 

a  light  in  the  upper  window  and  some  one  was  playing 
the  piano.  Eobin  hesitated  for  some  minutes  before 
ringing  the  bell.  When  it  had  rung  he  heard  the  piano 
stop.  For  a  few  seconds  there  was  no  sound;  then  there 
were  steps  in  the  passage  and  the  door  was  opened  by  the 
very  dowdy  little  maid-of-all-work  whose  hands  were  al- 
ways dirty  and  whose  eyes  were  always  red,  as  though 
with  perpetual  weeping. 

With  what  different  eyes  he  saw  the  house  now!  On 
his  first  visit,  the  sun  had  dazzled  his  eyes;  there  had 
been  flowers  in  the  drawing-room  and  she  had  come  to 
meet  him  in  some  charming  dress ;  he  had  stood  enrap- 
tured at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  deeming  it  Paradise.  Now 
the  lamp  in  the  hall  flared  with  the  wind  from  the  door, 
and  he  was  acutely  conscious  of  a  large  rent  in  the  dirty, 
faded  carpet.  The  house  was  perfectly  still — it  might 
have  been  a  place  of  ghosts,  with  the  moon  shining  mistily 
through  the  window  on  the  stairs  and  the  strange,  in- 
sistent murmur  of  the  sea  beating  mysteriously  through 
the  closed  doors! 

There  was  no  one  in  the  drawing-room,  and  its  appal- 
ling bad  taste  struck  him  as  it  had  never  done  before. 
How  could  he  have  been  blind  to  it  ?  The  glaring  yellow 
car]3et,  the  bright  purple  lamp-shades,  the  gilt  looking- 
glass  over  the  fireplace,  and,  above  all,  dusty,  drooping 
paper  flowers  in  bright  china  vases  ranged  in  a  row  by 
the  window.  Of  course,  it  might  be  merely  the  lodgings. 
Lodgings  always  were  like  that — but  to  live  with  them 
like  that  for  months !  To  attempt  no  change,  to  leave  the 
flowers,  and  the  terrible  oil-painting  "  Lost  in  the  Snow  " 
— an  obvious  British  Public  appeal  to  a  pathos  that  sim- 
ply shrieked  at  you,  with  its  hideous  colours  and  very 


60  THE  WOODEN,  HORSE 

material  snow-storm.  No,  Eobin  could  only  repeat  once 
more,  What  an  escape! 

But  had  he,  after  all,  escaped  ?  He  was  not  quite  sure, 
as  he  stood  by  the  window  waiting.  It  might  be  difficult, 
and  he  was  unmistakably  nervous. 

Dahlia  closed  the  door,  and  stood  there  for  a  moment 
before  coming  forward. 

"  Robin — at  last !  "  and  she  held  out  both  hands  to  him. 
They  were  the  same  words  that  his  aunt  had  used  to  his 
father  last  night,  he  remembered  foolishly,  and  at  once 
they  seemed  strained,  false,  ridiculous ! 

He  took  her  hand  and  said  something  about  being  in 
time;  then,  as  she  seemed  to  expect  it,  he  bent  down  and 
kissed  her. 

She  was  pretty  in  a  raxner  obvious  way.  If  there  had 
been  less  artificiality  there  would  have  been  more  charm ; 
of  middle  height,  she  was  slim  and  dark,  and  her  hair, 
parted  in  the  middle,  fell  in  waves  over  her  temples.  She 
affected  a  rather  simple,  aesthetic  manner  that  suited  her 
dark  eyes  and  rather  pale  complexion.  You  said  that 
she  was  intense  until  you  knew  her.  To-night  she  wore 
a  rather  pretty  dress  of  some  dark-brown  stuff,  cut  low 
at  the  neck,  and  with  her  long  white  arms  bare.  She  had 
obviously  taken  a  good  deal  of  trouble  this  evening,  and 
had  undoubtedly  succeeded. 

"  And  so  Sir  Robert  has  deigned  to  come  and  see  his 
humble  dependants  at  last !  "  she  said,  laughing.  "  A 
whole  fortnight,  Robin,  and  you've  not  been  near  us." 

"  I'm  dreadfully  sorry,"  he  said,  "  but  I've  really  been 
too  terribly  busy.  The  Governor  coming  home  and  one 
thing  and  another " 

He  felt  dreadfully  gauche  and  awkward,  the  conscious- 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  61 

ness  of  what  he  must  say  after  dinner  weighed  on  him 
heavily.  He  could  hardly  believe  that  there  had  ever 
been  a  time  when  he  had  talked  eagerly,  passionately — he 
cursed  himself  for  a  fool. 

"  Yes,  we've  been  very  lonely  and  you're  a  naughty 
boy,"  said  Dahlia.  "  But  now  you  are  here  I  won't 
scold  you  if  you  promise  to  tell  me  everything  you've  done 
since  last  time ?  " 

"  Oh !  done  ?  "  said  Eobin  vaguely ;  "  I  really  don't 
know — the  usual  sort  of  thing,  I  suppose — not  much  to 
do  in  Pendragon  at  any  time." 

She  had  been  looking  at  him  curiously  while  he  was 
speaking.  ISTow  she  suddenly  changed  her  voice.  "  I've 
been  so  lonely  without  you,  dear,"  she  said,  speaking 
almost  in  a  whisper ;  "  I  fancied — of  course  it  was  silly 
of  me — that  perhaps  there  was  some  one  else — that  you 
were  getting  a  little  tired  of  me.  I  was — ^very  unhappy. 
I  nearly  wrote,  but  I  was  afraid  that — some  one  might 
see  it.  Letters  are  always  dangerous.  But  it's  very 
lonely  here  all  day — with  only  mother.  If  you  could 
come  a  little  oftener,  dear — it  means  everything  to  me." 

Her  voice  was  a  little  husky  as  though  tears  were  not 
far  away,  and  she  spoke  in  little  short  sentences — she 
seemed  to  find  it  hard  to  say  the  words. 

Robin  suddenly  felt  a  brute.  How  could  he  ever  tell 
her  of  what  was  in  his  mind  ?  If  it  was  really  so  much 
to  her  he  could  never  leave  her — not  at  once  like  that ;  he 
must  do  it  gradually. 

She  was  sitting  by  him  on  the  sofa  and  really  looked 
rather  delightful.  She  had  the  pathetic  expression  that 
always  attracted  him,  and  he  felt  very  sorry  indeed. 
How  blank  her  days  would  be  without  him!     Part  of 


62  THE  WOODEIT  HOUSE 

the  romance  had  always  been  his  role  of  King  Cophetua, 
and  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes  as  he  thought  of  the  poor 
beggar-maid,  alone,  forlornly  weeping,  when  he  had  finally 
withdrawn  his  presence. 

"  I  think  it  is  partly  the  sea,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand 
gently  on  his  sleeve.  "  When  one  is  sitting  quite  alone 
here  in  the  evening  with  nothing  to  do  and  no  one  to  talk 
to,  one  hears  it  so  plainly — it  is  almost  frightening.  You 
know,  Robin,  old  boy,  I  don't  care  for  Pendragon  very 
much.  I  only  came  here  because  of  you — and  now — if 
you  never  come  to  see  us " 

She  stopped  with  a  little  catch  in  her  voice.  Her  hand 
fastened  on  his  sleeve;  their  heads  were  very  close  to- 
gether and  her  hair  almost  brushed  his  cheek. 

He  really  was  an  awful  brute,  but  at  the  same  time  it 
was  rather  nice — that  she  should  care  so  much.  It  would 
be  terrible  for  her  when  he  told  her  what  was  in  his  mind. 
She  might  even  get  very  ill — he  had  read  of  broken  hearts 
often  enough;  and  she  was  extraordinarily  nice  just  now 
— he  didn't  want  to  hurt  her.  But  still  a  fellow  must 
think  of  his  career,  his  future,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 

Mrs.  Feverel  entered — ponderous,  solemn,  dressed  in  a 
black  silk  that  trailed  behind  her  in  funereal  folds.  Her 
hands  were  clammy  to  the  touch  and  her  voice  was  a  deep 
bass.  She  said  very  little,  but  sat  down  silently  by  the 
window,  forming,  as  she  always  did,  a  dark  and  extremely 
solid  background.  Kobin  hated  and  feared  her.  There 
was  something  sinister  in  her  silence — something  ominous 
in  her  perpetual  black.     He  had  never  heard  her  laugh. 

Dahlia  was  laughing  now.  "  I'm  a  selfish  brute, 
Bobby,"  she  said,  "  to  bother  you  with  my  silly  little  com- 
plaints when  we  want  to  be  cheerful.     We'll  have  a  good 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  63 

time  this  evening,  won't  we?  We'll  sing  some  of  those 
Eubinstein's  duets  after  dinner,  and  I've  got  a  new  song 
that  I've  been  learning  especially  for  yon.  And  then 
there's  your  father;  I  do  want  to  hear  all  about  him  so 
much — he  must  be  so  interesting,  coming  from  ISTew  Zea- 
land. Mother  and  I  saw  a  gentleman  in  the  town  this 
morning  that  we  thought  must  be  him.  Tall  and  brown, 
with  a  light  brown  moustache  and  a  dark  blue  suit.  It 
must  be  splendid  to  have  a  father  again  after  twenty  years 
without  him. 

Her  voice  dropped  a  little,  as  though  to  refer  gently  to 
her  own  fatherless  condition. 

Mrs.  Feverel,  a  dark  shadow  in  the  window,  sighed 
heavily. 

"  Oh !  the  Governor !  "  said  Eobin,  a  little  irritably. 
"  No !  It's  rather  difficult — he  doesn't  seem  to  know 
what  to  do  and  say !  I  suppose  it's  being  in  New  Zealand 
so  long !     It  makes  it  rather  difficult  for  me !  " 

He  spoke  as  one  suffering  under  an  unjust  accusation. 
It  really  was  rather  bad  luck,  and  he  wondered  vaguely 
why  Dahlia  had  been  so  interested ;  why  should  she  care, 
unless,  and  the  idea  struck  him  with  horror,  she  already 
regarded  him  as  a  prospective  father-in-law  ? 

Dinner  was  announced  by  the  grimy  little  maid.  Eobin 
took  the  dark  figure  of  Mrs.  Eeverel  on  his  arm  and  made 
some  hesitating  remark  about  the  weather — but  he  had 
the  curious  and  unpleasant  sensation  of  her  seeing  through 
him  most  thoroughly  and  clearly.  He  felt  ridiculously 
like  a  captive,  and  his  doubts  as  to  his  immediate  escape 
increased.  The  gaudy  drawing-room,  the  dingy  stairs, 
the  gas  hissing  in  the  hall,  had  been,  in  all  conscience, 
depressing  enough,  but  now  this  heavy,  mute,  ominous 


64  THE  WOODED  HOESE 

woman,  trailing  her  black  robes  so  funereally  bebind  her, 
seemed,  to  his  excited  fancy,  some  implacable  Franken- 
stein created  by  his  own  thrice-cursed  folly. 

The  dinner  was  not  a  success.  The  food  was  bad,  but 
that  Eobin  had  expected.  As  he  faced  the  depression  of 
it,  he  was  more  than  ever  determined  to  end  it,  conclu- 
sively, that  evening,  but  Mrs.  Feverel's  gloom  and  Dah- 
lia's little  attempts  at  coquettish  gaiety  frightened  him. 
The  conversation,  supported  mainly  by  Dahlia,  fell  into 
terrible  lapses,  and  the  attempts  to  start  it  again  had  the 
unhappy  air  of  desperate  remedies  doomed  to  failure. 
Dahlia's  pathetic  glances  failed  of  their  intent.  Robin 
was  too  deeply  engaged  in  his  own  gloomy  reflections  to 
notice  them,  but  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  at  last  her 
efforts  ceased  and  a  horrible,  gloomy  silence  fell  like  a 
choking  fog  upon  them." 

"  Will  you  smoke,  Eobin  ? "  she  said,  when  at  last  the 
dessert,  in  the  shape  of  some  melancholy  oranges  and  one 
very  attenuated  banana,  was  on  the  table.  "  Straters  or 
Virginian — or  will  you  have  a  pipe  ?  " 

He  took  a  cigarette  clumsily  from  the  box  and  his  fin- 
gers trembled  as  he  lit  first  hers  and  then  his  own — he  was 
so  terribly  afraid  of  cutting  a  ridiculous  figure.  He  sat 
down  again  and  beat  a  tattoo  on  the  tablecloth.  She 
watched  him  a  moment  from  the  other  side  of  the  table 
and  then  she  came  over  to  him.  She  bent  over  his  chair, 
leaning  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"  Eobin,  what  is  it  ?  "  she  said.     "  What's  happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  he  said  gloomily.     "  It's  all  right " 

"  Oh !  do  you  suppose  I  haven't  seen  ?  "  She  bent 
closer  to  him  and  pressed  her  cheek  against  his.  "  Eobin, 
old  boy — ^you're  not  getting  tired  of  me  ?     You're  tired  or 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  65 

cross  to-niglit — I  don't  know.  I've  been  very  patient  all 
this  time — waiting  for  you — hoping  that  you  would  come 
— longing  for  you — and  you  never  came — all  these  many 
weeks.  Then  I  thought  that,  perhaps,  you  were  too  busy 
or  were  afraid  of  people  talking — but,  at  last,  there  was 
to  be  to-night;  and  I've  looked  forward  to  it — oh!  so 
much ! — and  now  you're  like  this !  " 

She  was  nearly  crying,  and  there  was  that  miserable 
little  catch  in  her  voice.  He  did  feel  an  awful  cad — he 
hadn't  thought  that  she  would  really  care  so  much  as  this ; 
but  still  it  had  to  be  done  some  time,  and  this  seemed  a 
very  good  opportunity. 

He  cleared  his  throat,  and,  beating  the  carpet  with  his 
foot,  tried  to  speak  with  dignity  as  well  as  feeling — but 
he  only  succeeded  in  being  patronising, 

"  You  know,"  he  said  quickly,  and  without  daring  to 
look  at  her,  "  one's  had  time  to  think.  I  don't  mean  that 
I'm  sorry  it's  all  been  as  it  has — we've  had  a  ripping  time 
— but  I'm  not  sure — one  can't  be  certain — that  it's  best 
for  it  to  go  on — quite  like  this.  You  see,  old  girl,  it's 
so  damned  serious.  Of  course  my  people  have  ideas  about 
my  marrying — of  course  the  Trojans  have  always  had  to 
be  careful.     People  expect  it  of  them " 

He  stopped  for  a  moment. 

"  You  mean  that  I'm  not  good  enough  ?  " 

She  had  stepped  back  from  his  chair  and  was  standing 
with  her  back  to  the  wall.  He  got  up  from  his  chair  and 
turned  round  and  faced  her,  leaning  with  his  hands  on 
the  table.  But  he  could  not  face  her  for  lone;;  his  eves 
dropped  before  the  fury  in  hers, 

"  'No,  no,  Dahlia — how  stupid  of  you ! — of  course  it's 
not  that.     It's  really  rather  unkind  of  you  to  make  it 


66  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

harder  for  me.  It's  difScult  enougli  to  explain.  You're 
good  enough  for  any  one,  but  I'm  not  quite  sure,  dear, 
whether  we'd  be  quite  the  people  to  marry!  We'd  be 
splendid  friends,  of  course — we'll  always  be  that — ^but 
we're  both  very  young,  and,  after  all,  it's  rather  hard  for 
one  to  know.  It  was  splendid  at  Cambridge,  but  I  don't 
think  we  quite  realised " 

"  You  mean  you  didn't,"  she  broke  in  quickly.  "  I 
know  well  enough.  Some  one's  been  speaking  to  you, 
Eobin?" 

"  ISTo — nobody,"  he  looked  at  her  fiercely.  She  had 
hurt  his  pride.  "  As  if  I'd  be  weak  enough  to  let  that 
make  any  difference.  No  one  has  said  a  word — 
only " 

"  Only — you'v^e  been  thinking  that  we're  not  quite  good 
enough  for  you — that  we'd  soil  your  Trojan  carpets  and 
chairs — that  we'd  stain  your  Trojan  relations.  I — I 
know — I ' ' 

And  then  she  broke  down  altogether.  She  was  kneel- 
ing by  the  table  with  her  head  in  her  arms,  sobbing  as 
though  her  heart  would  break. 

"  Oh,  I  say.  Dahlia,  don't !  I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
cry — it  will  be  all  right,  old  girl,  to-morrow — it  will  really 
— and  then  you  will  see  that  it  was  wiser.  You  will 
thank  me  for  speaking  about  it.  Of  course  we'll  always 
be  good  friends.     I " 

"  Robin,  you  don't  mean  it.  You  can't !  "  She  had 
risen  from  her  knees  and  now  stood  by  him,  timidly,  with 
one  hand  on  his  arm.  "  You  have  forgotten  all  those 
splendid  times  at  Cambridge.  Don't  you  remember  that 
evening  on  the  Backs  ?  Just  you  and  I  alone  when  there 
was  that  man  singing  on  the  other  side  of  the  water  when 


THE  WOODEX  IIOESE  67 

YOU  said  that  we  would  be  like  that  alwavs — together. 
Oh,  Eobin  xlear,  it  can't  have  been  all  nothing  to  you." 

She  looked  very  charming  with  her  eyes  a  little  wet 
and  her  hair  a  little  dishevelled.  But  his  resolution 
must  not  weaken — now  that  he  had  progressed  so  far,  he 
must  not  go  back.     But  he  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"  Eeally,  old  girl,  it  is  better — for  both  of  us.  We  can 
wait.  Perhaps  in  a  few  years'  time  it  will  seem  differ- 
ent again.  We  can  think  about  it  then.  I  don't  want  to 
seem  selfish,  but  you  must  think  about  me  a  little.  You 
must  see  how  hard  it  has  been  for  me  to  say  this,  and 
that  it  has  only  been  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  I've 
been  strong  enough.  Believe  me,  dear,  it  is  harder  for 
me  than  it-  is  for  you — much  harder." 

He  was  really  getting  on  very  well.  He  had  had  no 
idea  that  he  would  do  it  so  nicely.  Poor  girl !  it  was  hard 
luck — perhaps  he  had  led  her  to  expect  rather  too  much — 
those  letters  of  his  had  been  rather  too  warm,  a  little  in- 
discreet. But  no  doubt  she  would  marry  some  excellent 
man  of  her  ovsm  class — in  a  few  years  she  would  look  back 
and  wonder  how  she  had  ever  had  the  fortune  to  know  so 
intimately  a  man  of  Robin's  rank !  Meanwhile,  the  scene 
had  better  end  as  soon  as  possible. 

She  had  let  him  keep  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  now 
she  suddenly  leant  back  and  looked  up  in  his  face. 

"  Eobin,  darling,"  she  whispered,  "  you  can't  mean  it 
• — not  that  we  should  part  like  this.  Why,  think  of  the 
times  that  we  have  had — the  splendid,  glorious  times — 
and  all  that  we're  going  to  have.  Thinlv  of  all  that  you've 
said  to  me,  over  and  over  again " 

She  crept  closer  to  him.  "  You  love  me  really,  dear, 
all  the  same.     It's  onlv  that  some  one's  been  talking  to 


68  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

you  and  telling  you  that  it's  foolisli.  But  that  mustn't 
make  any  difference.  We're  strong  enough  to  face  all  the 
world.  You  know  that  you  said  you  were  in  the  summer, 
and  I'm  sure  that  you  are  now.  Wait  till  to-morrow, 
dear,  and  you'll  see  it  all  differently." 

"  I  tell  you  nobody's  been  talking,"  he  said,  drawing  his 
arm  away.  "  Besides,  if  they  did,  it  wouldn't  make  any 
difference.  'No,  Dahlia,  it's  got  to  stop.  We're  too  young 
to  know,  and  besides,  it  would  be  absurd  anyway.  I 
know  it's  bad  luck  on  you.  Perhaps  I  said  rather  too 
much  in  the  summer.  But  of  course  we'll  always  be  good 
friends.  I  know  you'll  see  it  as  I  do  in  a  little  time. 
We've  both  been  indiscreet,  and  it's  better  to  draw  back 
now  than  later — really  it  is." 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  Robin  ?  " 

She  stood  facing  him  with  her  hands  clenched ;  her  face 
was  white  and  her  eyes  were  blazing  with  fury. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  I  think  it's  time  this 
ended " 

"  IvTot  before  I've  told  you  what  I  think  of  you,"  she 
cried.  "  You're  a  thief  and  a  coward — you've  stolen  a 
girl's  love  and  then  you're  afraid  to  face  the  world — 
you're  afraid  of  what  people  will  say.  If  you  don't  love 
me,  you're  tied  to  me,  over  and  over  again.  You've  made 
me  promises — you  made  me  love  you — and  now  when 
your  summer  amusement  is  over  you  fling  me  aside — you 
and  your  fine  relations !  Oh !  you  gentlemen !  It  would 
be  a  good  thing  for  the  world  if  we  were  rid  of  the  whole 
lot  of  you !     You  coward !     You  coward !  " 

He  was  taken  aback  by  her  fury. 

"  I  say — Dahlia — "  he  stammered,  "  it's  unfair " 

"  Oh !  yes !  "  she  broke  in,  "  unfair,  of  course,  to  you ! 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  69 

but  nothing  to  me — nothing  to  me  that  you  stole  my  love 
— robbed  me  of  it  like  a  common  thief — pretended  to  love 
me,  promised  to  marry  me,  and  now — now — Oh !  unfair ! 
yes,  always  for  the  man,  never  for  the  girl — she  doesn't 
count !  She  doesn't  matter  at  all.  Break  her  heart  and 
fling  it  away  and  nobody  minds — it's  as  good  as  a  play !  " 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  stood  with  her  head  in  her 
hands,  sobbing  as  though  her  heart  would  break.  It  was 
really  a  most  distressing  scene ! 

"  Eeally,  really,  Dahlia,"  said  Eobin,  feeling  extremely 
uncomfortable  (it  was  such  a  very  good  thing,  he  thought, 
that  none  of  his  friends  could  see  him),  "  it's  no  use  your 
taking  it  like  this.  I  had  better  go — we  can't  do  any 
good  by  talking  about  it  now.  To-morrow,  when  we  can 
look  at  it  calmly,  it  will  seem  different." 

He  moved  to  the  door,  but  she  made  another  attempt 
and  put  her  hand  timidly  on  his  arm  to  stop  him. 

"  'No,  no,  Eobin,  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said — not  like 
that.     I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying.     Oh,  I  love  you, 
dear,  I  love  you !     I  can't  let  you  go  like  that.     You  don't 
know  what  it  means  to  me.     You  are  taking  everything 
from  me — when  you  rob  a  girl  of  her  love,  of  her  heart,  i 
you  leave  her  nothing.     If  you  go  now,  I  don't  care  what 
happens  to  me — death — or  worse.     Tbat's  how  you  make   , 
a  bad  woman,  Eobin.     Taking  her  love  from  her  and  then  / 
letting  her  go.     You  are  taking  her  soul !  " 

But  he  placed  her  gently  aside.  "  Nonsense,  Dahlia," 
he  said.  "  You  are  excited  to-night.  You  exaggerate. 
You  will  meet  a  man  much  worthier  than  myself,  and  then 
you  will  see  that  I  was  right." 

He  opened  the  door  and  was  gone. 

She  sat  dov\m  at  the  table.     She  heard  him  open  and 


70  THE  WOODEN  HOKSE 

shut  the  hall  door,  and  then  his  steps  echoed  down  the 
street,  and  at  last  there  was  silence.  She  sat  at  the  table 
with  her  head  bent.  The  house  was  perfectly  silent,  and 
her  very  heart  seemed  to  have  ceased  to  beat.  Of  course 
she  did  not  realise  it;  it  seemed  to  her  still  as  though  he 
would  come  back  in  a  moment  and  put  his  arms  round 
her  and  tell  her  that  it  was  all  a  game — just  to  see  if  she 
had  really  cared.  But  the  silence  of  the  street  and  the 
house  was  terrible.  It  choked  her,  and  she  pulled  at  her 
frock  to  loosen  the  tightness  about  her  throat.  It  was 
cruel  of  him  to  have  gone  away  like  that — but  of  course 
he  would  come  back.  Only  why  was  that  cold  misery  at 
her  heart  ?  Why  did  she  feel  as  if  some  one  had  placed 
a  hand  on  her  and  drawn  all  her  life  away,  and  left  her 
\  with  no  emotion  or  feeling — only  a  dull,  blank  despair, 
■'    like  a  cold  fog  through  which  no  sun  shone. 

Eor  she  was  beginning  to  realise  it  slowly.  He  had 
gone  away,  after  telling  her,  brutally,  frankly,  that  he  was 
tired  of  her — that  he  had,  indeed,  never  really  cared  for 
her.  That  was  it — he  had  never  cared  for  her — all  those 
things  that  he  had  promised  in  the  summer  had  been  false, 
words  without  any  meaning.  All  that  idyll  had  been  hol- 
low, a  sham,  and  she  had  made  it  the  centre  of  her  world. 

She  got  up  from  the  table  and  swayed  a  little  as  she 
stood.  She  pressed  her  hands  against  her  forehead  as 
though  she  would  drive  into  her  brain  the  fact  that  there 
would  be  no  one  now — no  one  at  all — it  was  all  a  lie,  a 
lie,  a  lie! 

The  door  opened  softly  and  Mrs.  Eeverel  stole  in. 

"  Dahlia — what  has  he  done  ?  " 

She  looked  at  her  as  though  she  could  not  see  her. 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  71 

"  Oh  nothing/'  she  said  slowly.  "  He  did  nothing. 
Only  it's  all  over — there  is  not  going  to  be  any  more." 

And  then,  as  though  the  full  realisation  of  it  had  only 
just  been  borne  in  upon  her,  she  sat  down  at  the  table 
again  and  burst  into  passionate  crying. 

Mrs.  Feverel  watched  her.  "  I  knew  it  was  coming, 
my  dear — weeks  ago.  You  know  I  told  you,  only  you 
wouldn't  listen.  Lord!  it  was  plain  enough.  He'd  only 
been  playing  the  same  game  as  all  the  rest  of  them." 

Dahlia  dried  her  eyes  fiercely.  "  I'm  a  fool  to  make 
so  much  of  it,"  she  said.  "  I  wasn't  good  enough — he 
said — not  good  enough.  His  people  wouldn't  like  it  and 
the  rest — Oh !  I've  been  a  fool,  a  fool !  " 

Her  mood  changed  to  anger  again.  Even  now  she  did 
not  grasp  it  fully,  but  he  had  insulted  her.  He  had  flung 
back  in  her  face  all  that  she  had  given  him.  Injured 
pride  was  at  work  now,  and  for  a  moment  she  hated  him 
so  that  she  could  have  killed  him  gladly  had  he  been  there. 
But  it  was  no  good — -she  could  not  think  about  it  clearly ; 
she  was  tired,  terribly  tired. 

"  I'm  tired  to  death,  mother,"  she  said.  "  I  can't  think 
to-night." 

She  stumbled  a  little  as  she  turned  to  the  door. 

"  At  least,"  said  Mrs.  Feverel,  "  there  are  the  letters." 

But  Dahlia  had  scarcely  heard. 

"  The  letters  ?  "  she  said. 

"  That  he  wrote  in  the  summer.  You  have  them  safe 
enough  ? " 

But  the  girl  did  not  reply.  She  only  climbed  heavily 
up  the  dark  stairs. 


CHAPTER  IV 

CLARE  TROJAlSr  was  having  breakfast  in  her  own 
room.  It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  a  glorious  September 
morning,  and  the  sparrows  were  twittering  on  the  terrace 
outside  as  though  they  considered  it  highly  improper  for 
any  one  to  have  breakfast  between  four  walls  when  ISTature 
had  provided  such  a  splendid  feast  on  the  lawn. 

Clare  was  reading  a  violent  article  in  the  National 
Review  concerning  the  inadequacy  of  our  present  solution 
of  the  housing  problem;  but  it  did  not  interest  her. 

If  the  world  had  only  been  one  large  Trojan  family 
there  would  have  been  no  problem.  The  trouble  was  that 
there  were  Greeks.  She  did  dimly  realise  their  existence, 
but  the  very  thought  of  them  terrified  her.  Troy  must  bo  ^ 
defended,  and  there  were  moments  when  Clare  was  afraid 
that  its  defenders  were  few;  but  she  blinded  herself  to 
the  dangers  of  attack.  "  There  are  no  Greeks,  there  are 
no  Greeks."  Clare  stood  alone  on  the  Trojan  walls  and 
defied  that  world  of  superstition  and  pagan  creeds.  With 
the  armour  of  tradition  and  an  implicit  belief  in  the 
watchword  of  all  true  Trojan  leaders,  "  Qui  dort  garde," 
she  warded  the  sacred  hearths;  but  there  were  moments 
when  her  eyes  were  opened  and  signs  were  revealed  to 
her  of  another  world — something  in  which  Troy  could 
have  no  i^lace ;  and  then  she  was  afraid. 

She  was  considering  Harry,  his  coming,  and  his  prob- 
able bearing  on  present  conditions,  and  she  knew  that  once 

72 


THE  WOODEN"  HOESE  73 

again  the  Trojan  walls  were  in  danger.  It  seemed  to  her, 
as  she  sat  there,  cruelly  unfair  that  the  son  of  the  House, 
the  man  who  in  a  little  while  would  stand  before  the 
world  as  the  head  of  the  Trojan  tradition,  should  be  the 
chief  instrument  in  the  attempted  destruction  of  the  same. 
She  had  not  liked  Harry  in  the  old  days.  She  had  al- 
ways, even  as  a  girl,  a  very  stern  idea  of  the  dignity  of 
the  House.  Harry  had  never  fulfilled  this  idea,  had 
never  even  attempted  to.  He  had  been  wild,  careless, 
undisciplined,  aceomi^anying  strange  uncouth  persons  on 
strange  uncouth  adventures ;  he  had  been  almost  a  byword 
in  the  place.  ISTo,  she  had  not  liked  him ;  she  had  almost 
hated  him  at  one  time.  And  then  after  he  had  gone  away 
she  had  deliberately  forgotten  him ;  she  had  erased  his 
name  from  the  fair  sheet  of  the  Trojan  record,  and  had 
hoped  that  the  House  would  never  more  be  burdened  by 
his  undisciplined  history.  Then  she  had  heard  that  there 
was  a  son  and  heir,  and  her  one  thought  had  been  of  cap- 
ture, deliverance  of  the  new  son  of  the  House  from  his 
father's  influence.  She  was  not  deliberately  cruel  in  her 
determination;  she  saw  that  the  separation  must  hurt  the 
father,  but  she  herself  was  ready  to  make  sacrifice  for  the 
good  of  the  House  and  she  expected  the  same  self-denial  in 
others.  Harry  made  no  difiiculties.  iN^ew  Zealand  was 
no  place  for  a  lonely  widower  to  bring  up  his  boy,  and 
Eobin  was  sent  home.  Erom  that  moment  he  was  the 
centre  of  Clare's  world;  much  self-denial  can  make  a 
__  woman  good,  only  maternity  can  make  her  divine.  To 
bring  the~Boy  up  for  the  House,  to  tutor  him  in  all  the 
little  and  big  things  that  a  Trojan  must  know  and  do,  to 
fit  him  to  take  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  family  on  a 
later  day ;  all  these  things  she  laboured  for,  day  and  night 


74  THE  WOODEN,  HOESE 

without  ceasing,  and  without  divided  interests.  She  loved 
the  boj,  too,  passionately,  with  more  than  a  mother's  love, 
and  now  she  looked  hack  over  what  had  been  her  lifework 
with  pride  and  satisfaction.  She  had  tried  to  forget 
Harry.  She  hoped,  although  she  never  dared  to  face  the 
thought  in  her  heart,  that  he  would  die  there,  away  in 
that  foreign  country,  without  coming  back  to  them  again. 
Robin  was  hers  now;  she  had  educated  him,  loved  him, 
scolded  him — he  was  all  hers,  and  she  would  brook  no 
division.  Then,  when  she  had  heard  that  Harry  was  to 
come  home,  it  had  been  at  first  more  than  she  could  bear. 
She  had  burst  into  wild  incoherent  protests ;  she  had 
prayed  that  an  accident  might  happen  to  him  and  that  he 
might  never  reach  home.  And  then  the  Tro j  an  pride  and  , 
restraint  had  come  to  her  aid.  She  was  ashamed,  bewil- 
dered, that  she  could  have  sunk  to  such  depths;  she  pre- 
pared to  meet  him  calmly  and  quietly;  she  even  hopedi 
that,  perhaps,  he  might  be  so  changed  that  she  would  wel-| 
come  him.  And,  after  all,  he  would  in  a  little  time  be 
head  of  the  House.  Eobin,  too,  was  strongly  under  her 
influence,  and  it  was  unlikely  that  he  would  leave  her  for 
a  man  whom  he  had  never  known,  for  whom  he  could  not 
possibly  care. 

It  was  this  older  claim  of  hers  with  regard  to  Eobin 
that  did,  she  felt,  so  obviously  strengthen  her  position; 
and  now  that  Harry  had  really  returned,  she  thought  that 
her  fears  need  not  trouble  her  much  longer — he  did  all 
the  things  that  Eobin  disliked  most.  His  boisterousness, 
heartiness,  and  good-fellowship,  dislike  of  everyday  con- 
ventionality, would  all,  she  knew,  count  against  him  with 
Eobin.  She  had  seen  him  shrink  on  several  occasions, 
and  each  time  she  had  been  triumphantly  glad.     Eor  she 


THE  WOODElvr  HOESE  T5 

/  was  frightened,  terribly  frightened.  Harry  was  threat- 
ening to  take  from  her  the  one  great  thing  around  which 
her  life  was  centred ;  if  he  robbed  her  of  Eobin  he  robbed 
her  of  everything,  and  she  must  fight  to  keep  him.  That 
it  would  come  to  a  duel  between  them  she  had  long  fore- 
seen, she  had  governed  for  so  long  that  she  would  not 
easily  yield  her  place  now ;  but  she  had  not  known  that  she 
would  feel  as  she  did  about  Eobin,  she  had  not  known 
that  she  would  be  jealous — jealous  of  every  look  and 
word  and  motion.  She  had  never  known  what  it  was  be- 
\  fore,  but  now  in  the  silence  of  the  golden,  sunlit  room, 
with  only  the  twittering  of  the  birds  on  the  lawn  to  dis- 
turb her  thoughts,  she  faced  the  facts  honestly  without 

(^  .shrinking,  and  she  knew  that  she  hated  her  brother.  Oh ! 
why  couldn't  he  go  back  again  to  his  sheep-shearing! 
Why  had  he  come  to  disturb  them!  It  w^as  not  his  en- 
vironment, it  was  not  his  life  at  all!  She  felt  that  they 
could  never  lead  again  that  same  quiet,  ordered  exist- 
ence; like  a  gale  of  wind  he  had  burst  their  doors  and  1 
broken  their  windows,  and  now  the  house  was  open,  deso-  j 
late,  to  the  world. 

She  went  up  to  her  fathers  room,  as  was  her  custom 
every  morning  after  breakfast.  He  was  lying  at  his  open 
window,  watching,  with  those  strange,  restless  eyes  of  his, 
the  great  expanse  of  sea  and  sky  stretching  before  him. 
His  room  was  full  of  light  and  air.  Its  white  walls  and 
ceiling,  gTeat  bowls  of  some  of  the  last  of  the  summer's 
roses,  made  it  seem  young  and  vigorous  and  alive.  It  was 
almost  a  shock  to  see  that  huddled,  dying  old  man  with 
his  bent  head  and  trembling  hands — but  his  eyes  were 
young,  and  his  heart. 

As  she  looked  at  him,  she  wondered  why  she  had  never 


r 


76  THE  WOODED  HORSE 

really  cared  for  him.  At  first  she  had  been  afraid ;  then^ 
as  she  grew  older  and  a  passionate  love  for  and  pride  in 
the  family  as  a  conservative  and  ancient  institution  devel- 
oped in  her,  that  fear  became  respect,  and  she  looked  up 
to  her  father  from  a  distance,  admiring  his  reserve  and 
pride  but  never  loving  him;  and  now  that  respect  had 
become  pity,  and  above  all  a  great  longing  that  he  might 
live  for  many,  many  years,  securing  the  household  gods 
from  shame  and  tending  the  fire  on  the  Trojan  hearth. 
Eor  at  the  moment  of  his  death  would  come  the  crisis — 
the  question  of  the  new  rule.  At  one  time  it  had  seemed 
certain  that  Eobin  would  be  king,  with  herself  a  very 
vigilant  queen-regent.  But  now  that  was  all  changed. 
Harry  had  come  home,  and  it  was  into  his  hands  that  the 
power  would  fall. 

She  had  often  wondered  that  she  knew  her  father  so 
little.  He  had  always  been  difficult  to  understand ;  a  man 
of  two  moods  strongly  opposed — strangely  taciturn  for 
days  together,  and  then  brilliantly  conversational,  amus- 
ing, and  a  splendid  companion.  She  had  never  known 
which  of  these  attitudes  was  the  real  one,  and  now  that  he 
was  old  she  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  ever  answering  the 
question.  His  moods  were  more  strongly  contrasted  than 
ever.  He  often  passed  quickly  from  one  to  the  other. 
If  she  had  only  known  which  was  the  real  one ;  she  felt  at 
times  that  his  garrulity  was  a  blind — that  he  watched  her 
almost  satirically  whilst  he  talked.  She  feared  his  silences 
terribly,  and  she  used  often  to  feel  that  a  moment  was 
approaching  when  he  would  reveal  to  her  definitely  and 
finally  some  plot  that  he  had  during  those  many  watchful 
years  been  forming.  She  knew  that  he  had  never  let  her 
see  his  heart — he  had  never  taken  her  into  his  confidence. 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  7Y 

She  had  tried  to  establish  some  more  intimate  relation- 
ship, but  she  had  failed;  and  now,  for  many  years,  she 
had  left  it  at  that. 

But  she  wanted  to  know  what  he  thought  of  Harry. 
She  had  waited  for  a  sign,  but  he  had  given  none;  and 
although  she  had  watched  him  carefully  she  had  discov- 
ered nothing.  He  had  not  mentioned  his  son — a  stranger 
might  have  thought  that  he  had  not  noticed  him.  But 
Clare  knew  him  too  well  to  doubt  that  he  had  come  to  some 
definite  conclusion  in  the  matter. 

She  bustled  cheerfully  about  the  room,  humming  a  little 
tune  and  tallying  to  him,  lightly  and  with  no  apparent 
purpose.  He  watched  the  gulls  fly  past  the  open  window, 
his  eyes  rested  on  a  golden  flash  of  sun  that  struck  some 
shining  roof  in  the  Cove,  but  his  mind  was  back  in  the 
early  days  when  he  had  played  his  game  with  the  best  and 
had  seen  the  bright  side  of  the  world. 

"  He  was  a  rake,  Jack  Crayle  " — he  seemed  scarcely 
conscious  that  Clare  was  in  the  room — "  a  rake  but  a  good 
heart,  and  an  amusing  fellow  too.  I  remember  meeting 
old  Eendle  and  Hawdon  Sallust — Hawdon  of  the  eighties, 
you  know — not  the  old  man — he  kept  at  home — all  three 
of  them  at  White's,  Eendle  and  Sallust  and  Crayle ;  Jack 
bet  Eendle  he  wouldn't  stop  the  next  man  he  met  in  the 
street  and  claim  him  as  an  old  friend  and  bring  him  in — 
and,  by  Jove,  he  took  it  and  brought  him  in,  too — sort  of 
tramp  chap  he  was,  too — dirty,  untidy  fellow — but  Eendle 
was  game  serious — by  Gad,  he  was.  Said  he  was  an  old 
friend  that  had  fallen  on  evil  times — gave  him  a  drink  and 
won  the  bet — '63  that  was — the  year  Bailey  won  that  polo 
match  against  old  Tom  Eadley — all  the  town  was  talking 
of  it.     By  Gad,  he  could  ride,  Bailey  could.     Why " 


Y8  THE  WOODEI^  HORSE 

"  It's  time  for  your  medicine,  father,"  said  Clare,  break- 
ing ruthlessly  in  upon  the  reminiscences. 

"  Eh,  dear,  yes,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  curiously. 
"  You're  never  late,  Clare,  always  up  to  time.  Yes,  yes, 
well,  well;  in  '63  that  was.  I  remember  it  like  yester- 
day— old  Tom — particular  friend  he  was  of  mine  then, 
although  we  broke  afterwards — my  fault  too,  probably, 
about  a  horse  it  was.     I " 

But  Clare  gave  him  his  medicine,  first  tying  a  napkin 
round  his  neck  lest  she  should  spill  the  drops.  He  looked 
at  her,  smiling,  over  the  napkin. 

"  You  were  always  a  girl  for  method,"  he  said  again ; 
"  not  like  Harry." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly,  but  could  guess  nothing ;  she 
was  suddenly  frightened,  as  she  so  often  was  when  he 
laughed  like  that.  She  always  expected  that  some  an- 
nouncement would  follow.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  had 
threatened  her. 

"  Harry  ?  "  she  said.  "  ]^o.  But  he  is  very  like  he 
used  to  be  in  some  ways.  It  is  nice  to  have  him  back 
again — but — well,  he  will  find  Pendragon  rather  different 
from  Auckland,  I'm  afraid." 

Sir  .Jeremy  said  nothing.  He  lay  there  without  mov- 
ing; Clare  untied  the  napkin,  and  put  back  the  medicine, 
and  wheeled  the  chair  into  a  sunnier  part  of  the  room  and 
away  from  the  window. 

"  You  must  get  on  with  Harry,  Clare,"  he  said  sud- 
denly, sharply. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  answered,  laughing  a  little  uneasily. 
"  Of  course  we  get  on.  Only  his  way  of  looking  at  things 
was  always  a  little  different — even,  perhaps,  a  little  diffi- 
cult to  understand ;  "  and  then,  after  a  little  pause,  "  I  am 


THE  WOODElsT  HORSE  Y9 

stupid,  I  know.     It  was  always  hard  for  me  to  see  like 
other  people." 

But  he  was  not  listening  to  her.  He  was  smiling  at  the 
sun,  and  the  birds  on  the  lawn,  and  the  flashing  gold  of 
the  distant  sand. 

"  Ko,  you  never  saw  like  Harry,"  he  said  at  last. 
"You  want  to  be  old  to  understand,"  and  he  would  say 
no  more. 

He  talked  to  her  no  more  that  morning,  and  she  was 
vaguely  uneasy.  What  was  he  thinking  about  Harry,  and 
how  did  his  opinion  influence  the  situation  ? 

She  fancied  that  she  saw  signs  of  rebellion.     For  many 
years  he  had  allowed  her  to  do  what  she  would,  and  al- 
though she  had  sometimes  wondered  whether  he  was  quite 
as  passive  as  she  had  fancied,  she  had  had  no  fear  of  any 
disturbance.     iSTow  there  was  something  vaguely  menacing 
in  his  very  silences.     And,  in  some  undefined  way,  the 
pleasure  that  he  took  in  the  cries  of  birds,  the  plunge  and 
chatter  of  the  sea  as  it  rose  and  fell  on  the  southern  shore, 
the  glint  of  the  sun  on  the  gold  and  green  distances  of 
rock  and  moor  was  alarming.     She  herself  did  not  under- 
stand those  things;   indeed,  she  scarcely  saw  them,  and 
was  inclined  to  despise  any  one  who  loved  any  unpractical ) 
.  beauty,  anything  that  was  not  at  least  traditional.     And 
now  this  was  a  bond  between  her  father  and  Harry.     They 
/   had  both  loved  wild,  uncivilised  things,  and  it  was  this 
\  very  trait  in  their  character  that  had  made  division  be- 
j  tween  them  before.     But  now  what  had  been  in  those  early 
years  the  cause  of  trouble  was  their  common  ground  of 
sympathy. 

They  shared  some  secret  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  and 
she  was  afraid  lest  Eobin  should  learn  it  too. 


80  THE  WOODEl^  HORSE 

She  went  about  her  housekeeping  duties  that  morning 
with  an  uneasy  mind.  The  discipline  below  stairs  was 
excellent  because  she  was  feared.  It  was  not  that  she  was 
hasty-tempered  or  unjust ;  indeed  the  cook,  who  had  been 
there  for  many  years,  said  that  she  had  never  seen  Miss 
Clare  angry,  and  her  justice  was  a  thing  to  marvel  at. 
She  always  gave  people  their  due,  and  exactly  their  due; 
she  never  over-praised  or  blamed,  and  that  was  why  people 
said  that  she  was  cold ;  it  was  also,  incidentally  responsible 
for  her  excellent  discipline. 

She  was,  as  Sir  Jeremy  had  said,  a  woman  of  amazing 
method.  But  the  attitude  of  her  actual  household  helped 
her ;  they  were  all,  by  education  and  environment,  Trojans. 
Whatever  they  had  been  before  they  entered  service  at 
"  The  Flutes  " — Radicals,  Socialists,  Dissenters,  or  Tories 
— at  the  moment  of  passing  the  threshold  they  were  trans- 
formed into  Trojans.  Other  things  fell  from  them  like  a 
mantle,  and  in  their  serious  devotion  to  traditional  Con- 
servatism, they  were  examples  of  the  true  spirit  of  Feudal- 
ism. Beldam,  the  butler,  had  long  ago  graduated  as 
Professor  in  the  system.  Coming  as  page-boy  in  earlier 
years,  he  had  acquired  the  by  no  means  easy  art  of  Trojan 
diplomacy.  It  was  now  his  duty  to  overhaul,  as  it  were, 
every  servant  that  passed  the  gates ;  an  overhauling,  more- 
over, done  seriously  and  with  much  searching  of  the  heart. 
Were  you  a  Trojan?  That  is,  do  you  consider  that  you 
are  exceptionally  fortunate  in  being  chosen  to  perform 
menial  but  necessary  duties  in  the  Trojan  household? 
Will  you  spend  the  rest  of  your  days,  not  only  in  perform- 
ing your  duties  worthily,  but  also  in  preaching  to  a  blind 
and  misguided  world  the  doctrine  of  Trojan  perfection 


THE  WOODEX  HOESE  81 

and  superiority  ?  If  the  answer  were  honestly  affirmative, 
you  were  accepted;  otherwise,  you  were  expelled  with  a 
fortnight's  wages  and  eternal  contempt. 

Even  the  scullerymaid  was  not  spared,  but  had  to  pass 
an  examination  in  rites  and  rituals  so  severe  that  one  un- 
fortunate, Annie  Grace  Marks,  after  Beldam  had  spoken 
to  her  severely  for  half-an-hour,  burst  out  with  an  im- 
petuous, "  Thank  Gawd,  she  was  a  Marks,  which  was  as 
good  as  the  High  and  Mighty  any  day  of  the  week,  and 
better,  for  there  weren't  no  pride  in  the  Marks  and  never 
'ad  been." 

She  received  her  dismissal  that  same  evening. 

But  the  case  of  Annie  Marks  was  an  isolated  one.  Be- 
hellion  was  very  occasional,  and,  for  the  most,  the  serv- 
ants stayed  at  "  The  Flutes  " — partly  because  the  pay  was 
good,  and  j^artly  because  the  very  reiteration  of  Trojan 
supremacy  gave  them  a  feeling  of  elevation  very  pleasant 
to  their  pride.  In  accordance  with  all  true  feudal  law, 
you  lost  your  own  sense  of  birth  and  ancestry  and  became 
in  a  moment  a  Trojan;  for  Smith,  Jones,  and  Bobinson 
this  was  very  comforting. 

So  Clare  had  very  little  trouble,  and  this  morning  she 
was  able  to  finish  her  duties  speedily,  and  devote  her 
whole  attention  to  the  crisis  that  threatened  the  family. 

She  decided  to  see  Garrett,  and  made  her  way  to  his 
room.  He  was  writing,  and  seemed  disturbed  by  her  entry. 
He  had  been  working  for  some  years  on  a  book  to  be  en- 
titled, "  Our  Aristocracy :  its  Threatened  Supremacy." 
He  was  still  engaged  on  the  preliminary  chapter,  "  Some 
aspects  of  historical  aristocracy,"  and  it  had  developed 
into  a  somewhat  minute  account  of  Trojan  past  history. 


82  THE  WOODE:^^  HOKSE 

He  had  no  expectations  of  ever  concluding  the  work,  but  it 
gave  him.  a  pleasant  sense  of  importance  and  seemed  in 
some  vague  way  to  be  of  value  to  the  Trojan  family. 

He  was  always  happy  when  at  work,  although  he  effected 
very  little ;  but,  after  all,  the  great  stylists  always  worked 
slowly.  His  style  was,  it  is  true,  somewhat  commonplace ; 
but  his  rather  minute  output  allowed  him  to  rank,  in  his 
own  estimation,  with  Pater  and  Omar  Khayyam,  and 
disdain  the  voluminous  facility  of  Thackeray  and  Dickens. 
He  was,  he  felt,  one  of  the  "  precious  "  writers,  and  so 
long  as  no  one  saw  his  work  he  was  able  both  to  comfort 
himself  and  to  impress  others  with  the  illusion. 

It  was  said  vaguely  in  Peudragon  that  "  Garrett  Trojan 
was  a  clever  fellow — was  writing  a  book — said  to  be  bril- 
liant, of  great  promise — no,  he  hadn't  seen  it,  but — "  &c. 

So  Garrett  looked  at  his  sister  a  little  resentfully. 

"  I  hope  it's  important,  Clare,"  he  said,  "  because — 
well,  you  know,  the  morning's  one's  time  for  work,  and 
once  one  gets  off  the  track  it's  difficult  to  get  back;  not 
that  I've  done  much  you  know,  only  half  a  page — but  this 
kind  of  thing  can't  move  quickly." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Garrie,"  she  answered,  "  but  you've  got  to 
talk  to  me.  There  are  things  about  which  I  want  your 
advice." 

She  did  not  really  want  it ;  she  had  decided  on  her  line 
of  conduct,  and  nothing  that  he  could  say  would  alter  her 
decision — but  it  flattered  him,  and  she  needed  his  help. 

"  Well,  of  course,"  he  said,  pushing  his  chair  back  and 
coming  to  the  fire,  "  if  it's  anything  I  can  do —  What 
is  it,  Clare  ?     Household  or  something  in  the  town  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  laughed  at  him.  "  Don't  be  wor- 
ried, Garrie ;  I  know  it's  horrid  to  disturb  you,  and  there's 


^ 


THE  WOODEX  HOESE  83 

really  nothing — only — well,  after  all,  there  is  only  us, 
isn't  there?  for  acting  together  I  mean — and  I  want  to 
know  what  line  you're  going  on." 

"  Oh !  about  Harry  ?  "  He  looked  at  her  sharply  for 
a  moment.  "  You  know  that  I  object  to  lines,  Clare. 
They  are  dangerous  things."  He  implied  that  he  was 
above  them.  "  Of  course  there  are  times  when  it  is  neces- 
sary to — well,  to  be  decisive;  but  at  present  it  seems  to 
me  that  we  must  wait  for  the  situation  to  develop — it 
will,  of  course." 

"  I  knew  that  you  would  say  that,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"  But  it  won't  do ;  the  situation  has  developed.  You  al- 
ways preferred  to  look  on — it  is,  as  you  say,  less  danger- 
ous; but  here  I  must  have  your  help.  Harry  has  been 
back  a  week ;  he  is,  for  you  and  me,  unchanged.  The  situ- 
ation, as  far  as  we  go,  is  the  same  as  it  was  twenty  years 
ago.  He  is  not  one  of  us,  he  never  was,  and,  to  do  him 
justice,  never  pretended  to  be.  We,  or  at  any  rate  I, 
imagined  that  he  would  be  different  now,  after  all  that 
time.     He  is  exactly  the  same."     She  paused. 

"Well?"  he  said.  "All  that  for  granted,  it's  true 
enough.     What's  the  trouble  ?  " 

"  Things  aren't  the  same  though,  now.  There  is  father, 
and  Eobin.  Father  has  taken  to  Harry  strongly.  Hb 
told  me  so  just  now.     And  for  Eobin " 

"  Scarcely  captivated,"  said  Garrett  drily.  "  Have  you 
seen  them  together  ?     Hardly  domestic " 

Then  he  looked  at  her  again  and  laughed.  "  And  that 
pleases  you,  Clare." 

"  Of  course,"  she  answered  him  firmly.  "  There  is  no 
good  in  hedging.  He  is  no  brother  of  ours,  Garrett.  He 
is,  what  is  more  important  still,  no  Trojan,  and  after  all 


84:  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

family  counts  for  sometliing.  We  don't  like  him,  Grarrett. 
Why  be  sentimental  about  it?  He  will  follow  father — 
and  it  will  be  soon — apres,  le  deluge.  For  ourselves,  it 
does  not  matter.  It  is  hard,  of  course,  but  we  have  had 
our  time,  and  there  are  other  things  and  places.  It  is 
about  Eobin.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  what  it  would  mean 
if  he  was  alone  here  with  Harry,  after  all  these  years." 

"  He  would  not  stay." 

"  You  think  that  ?  "  Clare  said  eagerly.  "  It  is  so  hard 
to  know.  He  is  still  only  a  boy.  Of  course  Harry  shocks 
him  now,  shocks  everything — his  sense  of  decency,  his 
culture,  his  pride — but  that  will  wear  off ;  he  will  get  used 
to  it — and  then " 

It  had  been  inevitable  that  the  discussion  should  come, 
and  Garrett  had  been  waiting.  He  had  no  intention  of 
going  to  find  her,  he  would  wait  until  she  came  to  him,  but 
he  had  been  anxious  to  know  her  opinion.  For  himself 
the  possibility  of  Harry's  return  had  never  presented  it- 
self. After  all  those  years  he  would  surely  remain  where 
he  was.  In  yielding  his  son  he  had  seemed  to  abandon  all 
claim  to  any  rights  of  inheritance,  and  Garrett  had  thought 
of  him  as  one  comfortably  dead.  He  had  contemplated  his 
own  ultimate  succession  with  the  pleasurable  certainty  that 
it  was  absolutely  the  right  thing.  In  his  love  for  a  rather 
superficial  tradition  he  was  a  perfect  Trojan,  and  might  be 
relied  on  to  continue  existing  conditions  without  any  at- 
tempt at  radical  changes.  Clare,  too,  would  be  of  great 
use. 

/  But  in  a  moment  what  had  been,  in  his  mind,  certainty 
(  was  changed  into  impossibility;  instead  of  a  certain  suc- 
I  cessor  he  had  become  some  one  w^hose  very  existence  was 
I    imperilled — his  existence,  that  is,  on  the  only  terms  that 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  85 

were  in  the  least  comfortable.  Everything  that  made  life 
worth  living  was  threatened.  Not  that  his  brother  would 
turn  him  out;  he  granted  Harry  the  very  un-Trojan  vir- 
tues of  generosity  and  affection  for  humanity  in  general — • 
a  rather  foolish,  gregarious  open-handedness  opposed  obvi- 
ously to  all  decent  economy.  But  Harry  would  keep  him 
— and  the  very  thought  stirred  Garrett  to  a  degree  of 
anger  that  his  sluggish  nature  seldom  permitted  him. 
Kept !  and  by  Harry  !  Harry  the  outlaw !  Harry  the  rebel ! 
Harry  the  Greek !  Garrett  scarcely  loved  his  brother  when 
he  thought  of  it. 

But  it  was  necessary  that  some  line  of  action  should  be 
adopted,  and  he  was  glad  that  Clare  had  taken  the  first 
step. 

"  You  don't  think,"  he  said  doubtfully,  "  that  he  could 
be  induced  to  go  back  ?  " 

"  What !  "  cried  Clare,  "  after  these  years  and  the  way 
he  has  waited.  Why,  remember  that  first  evening !  Ho 
will  never  leave  this  again.  He  has  been  dreaming  about 
it  too  long !  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Garrett.  "  He'll  be  at  logger- 
heads with  the  town  very  soon.  He  has  been  saying  curi- 
ous things  to  a  good  many  people.  He  objects  to  all  im- 
provement and  says  so.  The  place  will  soon  be  too  hot  for 
him." 

But  Clare  shook  her  head.  "  jSTo,"  she  said.  "  He  will 
soon  find  out  about  things — and  then,  in  a  little,  when  he 
takes  father's  place,  what  people  think  odd  and  unpleasant 
now  will  be  original  and  strong.  Besides,  he  would  never 
go,  whatever  might  happen,  because  of  Eobin." 

"  Ah,  yes,  there  is  Eobin.  It  will  be  curious  to  watch 
developments  there.     Eandal  comes  to-day,  doesn't  he  ?  " 


S6  THE  WOODED  HORSE 

"Yes,  this  afternoon.  A  most  delightful  boy.  I'm 
afraid  that  he  may  find  Harry  tiresome." 

"We  must  wait,"  Garrett  said  finally;  "in  a  week's 
time  we  shall  see  better.  But,  Clare,  don't  be  rash.  There 
is  father — and,  besides,  it  will  scarcely  help  Robin." 

"  Oh !  no  melodrama,"  she  said,  laughing  and  moving 
towards  the  door.  "  Only^  we  understand  each  other,  Gar- 
rie.  Things  won't  do  as  they  are — or,  as  they  promise  to 
be." 

Garrett  returned,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  to  his  papers. 

For  Harry  the  week  had  been  a  series  of  bitter  disap- 
pointments. He  woke  gradually  from  his  dreams  and 
saw  that  everything  was  changed.  He  was  in  a  new 
world  and  he  was  out  of  place.  Those  dreams  had  been 
coloured,  fantastically,  beautifully.  In  the  white  peb- 
bles, the  golden  sand,  the  curling  grey  smoke  of  the  Cove, 
he  had  formed  pictures  that  had  lightened  many  dreary 
and  lonely  hours  in  Auckland.  He  was  to  come  back; 
away  from  that  huge  unwieldy  life  in  which  comfort  had 
no  place  and  rest  was  impossible,  back  to  all  the  old 
things,  the  wonderful  glorious  things  that  meant  home  and 
tradition,  and,  above  all,  love.  He  was  a  sentimentalist, 
he  knew  that  now.  It  had  not  been  so  in  those  old  days ; 
then  life  had  been  too  adventurous  and  excitins",  and  he 
had  despised  the  quiet  comforts  of  a  stay-at-home  exist- 
ence. .  But  now  he  knew  its  value !  he  would  come  home 
and  take  his  place  as  head  of  the  family,  as  father,  as 
citizen — he  had  learnt  his  lesson,  and  at  last  it  was  time 
for  the  reward. 

But  now  that  he  had  come  home  he  found  that  the  les- 
son was  not  learnt,  or,  perhaps,  that  the  learning  had  been 
wasted ;  he  must  begin  all  over  again.     Garrett  and  Clare 


THE  WOODEI^  HORSE  8Y 

had  not  changed;  they  had  made  no  advances  and  had 
shown  him  quite  plainly,  in  the  courteous  Trojan  fashion, 
that  they  considered  his  presence  an  intrusion,  that 
they  had  no  place  in  their  ranks  that  he  could  fill.  He 
was,  he  saw  it  plainly,  no  more  in  line  with  them  than 
he  had  been  twenty  years  before.  Indeed,  matters  were 
worse.  There  was  no  possibility  of  agreement — they 
were  poles  apart. 

With  the  town,  too,  he  was  an  "  outsider."  The  men 
at  the  Club  thought  him  a  bore — a  person  of  strange  en- 
thusiasms and  alarming  heresies.  By  the  ladies  he  was 
considered  rough:  as  Mrs.  le  Terry  had  put  it  to  Miss 
Ponsonby,  he  was  a  hind  of  too  terrible  bushranger  with- 
out the  romance!  He  was  gauche,  he  knew,  and  ho 
hated  the  tea-parties.  They  talked  about  things  of  which 
he  knew  nothing;  he  was  too  sincere  to  cover  his  convic- 
tions with  the  fatuous  chatter  that  passed,  in  Fallacy 
Street  society,  for  brilliant  wit.  That  it  was  fatuous  he 
was  convinced,  but  his  conviction  made  matters  no  easier 
for  him. 

But  his  attitude  to  the  town  had  been,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, from  the  very  first  a  challenge.  He  had  expected 
things  that  were  not  there ;  he  had  thought  that  his  dreams 
were  realities,  and  when  he  had  demanded  golden  colours 
and  had  been  shown  stuff  of  sombre  grey,  there  had  been 
wild  rebellion  and  impatient  discontent  with  the  world. 
He  had  thought  Pendragon  amazing  in  its  utter  disregard 
of  the  things  that  were  to  him  necessities,  but  he  had  for- 
gotten that  he  himself  despised  so  completely  things  that 
were  to  Pendragon  essentials.  He  had  asked  for  beauty 
and  they  had  given  him  tramways;  he  had  searched  for 
romance  and  had  discovered  the  new  hotel;  he  dreamed 


88  THE  WOODEN"  HOESE 

of  the  sand  and  blue  water  of  the  Cove  and  had  awaked 
to  find  the  place  despised  and  contemned — a  site  for 
future  boarding-houses. 

The  town  had  thought  him  at  first  entertaining ;  they  had 
made  allowances  for  a  certain  rather  picturesque  absurdity 
consequent  on  backwoods  and  the  friendship  of  Maories — 
men  had  laughed  at  the  Club  and  detailed  Harry  Trojan's 
latest  with  added  circumstance  and  incident,  and  for  a 
while  this  was  amusing.  But  his  vehemence  knew  no 
pause,  and  he  stated  his  disgust  at  the  practical  spirit  of 
the  new  Pendragon  with  what  seemed  to  the  choice  spirits 
at  the  Club  effrontery.  They  smiled  and  then  they 
sneered,  and  at  last  they  left  him  alone. 

So  Harry  found  himself,  at  the  end  of  the  first  week 
after  his  return,  alone  in  Pendragon. 

He  had  not,   perhaps,   cared  for  their  rejection.     He 
had  come,  like  Gottwalt  in  FlegejaJire  "  loving  every  dog 
and  wishing  that  every  dog  should  love  him  " — but  he  ) 
had  seen,  at  once,  that  his  way  must  be  apart  from  theirs, 
and  in  that  knowledge  he  had  tried  to  find  the  comfort  of 
a  minority  certain  of  its  own  strength  and  disdainful  of  y 
common  opinion.     He  had  marvelled  at  their  narrow  vi-( 
sion  and  was  unaware  that  his  own  point  of  view  was 
equally  narrow.  -^ 

And,  after  all,  there  was  Eobin.  Robin  and  he  would 
defy  Pendragon  and  laugh  at  its  stupid  little  theories  and 
short-sighted  plans.  And  then,  slowly,  irresistibly,  he 
had  seen  that  he  was  alone — that  Eobin  was  on  the  side 
of  Pendragon.  He  refused  to  admit  it  even  now,  and 
told  himself  again  and  again  that  the  boy  was  naturally 
a  little  awkward  at  first — careless  perhaps — certainly  con- 
strained.    But  gradually  a  wall  had  been  built  up  be- 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  89 

tween  them;  they  were  greater  strangers  now  than  thej 
had  been  on  that  first  evening  of  the  return.  Ah !  how 
he  had  tried!  He  had  thought  that,  perhaps,  the  hoy 
hated  sentiment  and  he  had  held  himself  back,  watching 
eagerly  for  any  sign  of  affection,  ready  humbly  to  take 
part  in  anything,  to  help  in  any  difficulty,  to  laugh,  to 
sympathise,  to  take  his  i:)lace  as  he  had  been  waiting  to  do 
for  so  many  years. 

But  Robin  had  made  no  advances,  showed  no  sign. 
He  had  almost  rejDulsed  him — had  at  least  been  absolutely 
indifferent.  They  had  had  a  walk  together,  and  Harry 
had  tried  his  best — ^but  the  attempt  had  been  obvious,  and 
at  last  there  had  come  a  terrible  silence ;  they  had  walked 
back  through  the  streets  of  Pendragon  without  a  word. 

Everything  that  Harry  had  said  had  been  unfortunate. 
He  had  praised  the  Cove  enthusiastically,  and  Robin  had 
been  contemptuous.  He  had  never  heard  of  Pater  and 
had  confounded  Ibsen  with  Jerome  K.  Jerome.  He  had 
praised  cricket  and  met  with  no  reply.  Twice  he  had  seen 
Robin's  mouth  curl  contemptuously,  and  it  had  cut  him 
to  the  heart. 

Poor  Harry !  he  was  very  lonely.  During  the  last  two 
days  he  had  been  down  in  the  Cove;  he  had  found  his 
way  into  the  little  inn  and  got  in  touch  with  some  of  the 
fishermen.  But  they  scarcely  solaced  his  loneliness.  He 
had  met  Mary  Bethel  on  the  dowms,  and  for  a  moment 
they  had  talked.  There  was  no  stiffness  there;  she  had 
looked  at  him  simply  as  a  friend,  with  no  hostility,  and  he 
had  been  grateful. 

At  last  he  had  begun  to  look  forward  to  the  coming  of 
Robin's  friend,  Randal.  He  was,  evidently,  a  person  to 
whom  Robin  looked  up  with  great  admiration.     Perhaps 


90  THE  WOODEK  HOESE 

lie  would  form  in  some  way  a  link,  would  understand  the 
difficulties  of  both,  and  would  help  them.  Harry  waited, 
eagerly,  and  formed  a  picture  of  Eandal  in  his  mind  that 
gave  him  much  encouragement. 

He  was  in  his  room  now;  it  was  half-past  four,  and 
the  carriage  had  just  passed  up  the  drive.  He  looked 
anxiously  at  his  ties  and  hesitated  between  light  green, 
brown,  and  black.  He  had  learnt  the  importance  of  these 
things  in  his  son's  eyes.  He  was  going  next  week  to 
London  to  be  fitted;  meanwhile  he  must  not  offend  their 
sense  of  decency,  and  he  hesitated  in  front  of  his  tie-box 
like  a  girl  before  her  first  dance.  The  green  was  terribly 
light.  It  was  a  good  tie,  but  perhaps  not  quite  the  thing. 
Nothing  seemed  to  go  properly  with  his  blue  suit — the 
brown  was  dull  and  uninteresting — it  lacked  character; 
any  one  might  have  worn  it,  and  he  flung  it  back  almost 
scornfully  into  the  box.  The  black  was  really  best,  but 
how  dismal!  He  seemed  to  see  all  his  miserable  loneli- 
ness and  disappointment  in  its  dark,  sombre  colour.  IsTo, 
that  would  never  do !  He  must  be  bright,  amusing, 
cheerful — anything  but  dull  and  dismal.  So  he  put  on 
the  gi-een  again,  and  went  down  to  the  drawing-room. 
Eandal  was  a  young  man  of  twenty-four — dark,  tall,  and 
slight,  with  a  rather  weary  look  in  the  eyes,  as  of  one  who 
had  discovered  the  hollow  mockery  of  the  world  and  won- 
dered at  the  pleasures  of  simple  people.  He  was  per- 
fectly dressed,  and  had  arrived,  after  much  thought  and 
a  University  education,  at  that  excellent  result  when 
everything  is  right,  as  it  were,  by  accident — as  though  no 
thought  had  been  taken  at  all.  As  soon  as  a  man  appears 
to  have  laboured  for  effect,  then  he  is  badly  dressed.  Ean- 
dal was  good-looking.     He  had  very  dark  eyes  and  thin, 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  91 

rather  curling  lips,  and  hair  brushed  straight  back  from 
his  forehead. 

The  room  was  in  twilight.  It  was  Clare's  morning- 
room,  chosen  because  it  was  cosy  and  favoured  intimacy. 
She  was  fond  of  Randal  and  liked  to  mother  him;  she 
also  respected  his  opinions.  The  windows  looked  over  the 
sea  and  the  blinds  were  not  dra^vn.  The  twilight,  like  a 
floating  veil,  hovered  over  sea  and  land ;  the  last  faint  col- 
ours of  the  sunset,  gold  and  rose  and  grey,  trembled  over 
the  town. 

Harry  was  introduced.  Randal  smiled,  but  his  hand 
was  limp ;  Harry  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  his  own  hearty 
grasp  and  wished  that  he  had  been  less  effusive.  Randal's 
suit  was  dark  blue  and  he  wore  a  black  tie ;  Harry  became 
suddenly  conscious  of  his  daring  green  and,  taking  his  tea, 
went  and  sat  in  the  window  and  watched  the  town.  The 
first  white  colours  of  the  young  moon,  slipping  from  the 
rosy-grey  cloud,  touched  faintly  the  towers  of  the  ruined 
church  on  the  moor;  he  fancied  that  he  could  just  see  the 
four  stones  shining  darkly  grey  against  the  horizon,  but 
it  was  difficult  to  tell  in  that  mysterious  half-light. 
Robin  was  sitting  under  the  lamp  by  the  door.  The  light 
caught  his  hair,  but  his  face  was  in  shadow.  Harry 
watched  him  eagerly,  hungrily.  Oh !  how  he  loved  him, 
his  son ! 

Randal  was  discussing  some  people  with  whom  he  had 
been  staying — a  little  languidly  and  without  any  very 
active  interest.  "  Rather  a  nice  girl,  though,"  he  said. 
"  Only  such  a  dreadful  mother.  Young  Page-Eellison 
would  have  had  a  shot,  I  do  believe,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  mother — wore  a  wig  and  talked  Cockney,  and  fairly 
grabbed  the  shekels  in  bridge." 


92  THE  WOODED  HORSE 

"  And  what  about  the  book  ?  "  Clare  asked. 

'"  Oh !  going  on,"  said  Randal.  "  I  showed  Cressel  a 
chapter  the  other  day — you  know  the  New  Argus  man; 
and  he  was  very  nice  about  it.  Of  course,  some  of  the 
older  men  won't  like  it,  you  know.  It  fairly  goes  for 
their  methods,  and  I  flatter  myself  hits  them  pretty  hard 
once  or  twice.  You  know,  Miss  Trojan,  it's  the  young 
school  you've  got  to  look  to  nowadays;  it's  no  use  going 
back  to  those  mid-Victorians — all  very  well  for  the  school- 
room— cause  and  effect  and  all  that  kind  of  thing — ^but 
we  must  look  ahead — be  modern  and  you  will  be  progress- 
ive. Miss  Trojan." 

"  That's  just  what  I'm  always  saying,  Mr.  Randal," 
said  Clare,  smiling.  "  We're  fighting  a  regular  battle 
over  it  down  here,  but  I  think  we  will  win  the  day." 

Randal  turned  to  Harry.  "  And  you,  sir,"  he  said, 
"  are  with  us,  too  ?  " 

Harry  laughed.  He  knew  that  Robin  was  looking  at 
him.  "  I  have  been  away,"  he  said,  "  and  perhaps  I 
have  been  a  little  surprised  at  the  strides  that  things  have 
made.  Twenty  years  is  a  long  time,  and  I  was  romantic 
and  perhaps  foolish  enough  to  expect  that  Pendragon 
would  be  very  much  the  same  when  I  came  back.  It  has 
changed  greatly,  and  I  am  a  little  disappointed." 

Clare  looked  up.  "  My  brother  has  lost  touch  a  little, 
Mr.  Randal,"  she  said,  ''  and  I  don't  think  quite  sees  what 
is  good  for  the  place — indeed,  necessary.  At  any  rate, 
he  scarcely  thinks  with  us." 

"  With  us."  There  was  emphasis  on  the  word.  That 
meant  Robin  too.  Randal  glanced  at  him  for  a  moment 
and  then  he  turned  to  Robin — father  and  son!  A  swift 
drawing  of  contrasts,  perhaps  with  an  inevitable  conclu- 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  93 

sion  in  favour  of  his  own  kind.  It  was  suddenly  as 
though  the  elder  man  was  shut  out  of  the  conversation; 
they  had,  in  a  moment,  forgotten  his  very  presence.  He 
sat  in  the  dusk  by  the  window,  his  head  in  his  hands,  and 
terrible  loneliness  at  his  heart;  it  hurt  as  he  had  never 
known  before  that  anything  could  hurt.  He  had  never 
known  that  he  was  sensitive ;  in  Auckland  it  had  not  been 
so.  He  had  never  felt  things  then,  and  had  a  little 
despised  people  that  had  minded.  But  there  had  been 
ever,  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  the  thought  of  those  days 
that  were  coming  when,  with  his  son  at  his  side,  he  could 
face  all  things.  Well,  now  he  had  his  son — there,  with 
him  in  the  room.  The  irony  of  it  made  him  clench  his 
hands,  there  in  the  dark,  whilst  they  talked  in  the  lighted 
room  behind  him. 

"  Oh !  King's  is  going  to  pot,"  Eandal  was  saying.  "  I 
was  do^vn  in  the  Mays  and  they  were  actually  running 
with  the  boats — they  seemed  quite  keen  on  going  up. 
The  decent  men  seem  to  have  all  gone." 

Robin  was  paying  very  little  attention.  He  was  look- 
ing worried,  and  Clare  watched  him  a  little  anxiously. 
^'  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  stay  with  us  some  days,  Mr. 
Randal,"  she  said.  "  There  are  several  new  people  in 
Pendragon  whom  I  should  like  you  to  meet." 

Randal  was  charmed.  He  would  love  to  stop,  but  he 
must  get  back  to  London  almost  immediately.  He  was 
going  over  to  Germany  next  week  and  there  were  many 
arrangements  to  be  made. 

"  Germany !  "  It  was  Robin  who  spoke,  but  the  voice 
was  not  his  usual  one.  It  was  alive,  vibrating,  startling. 
"  Germany !     By  Jove !     Randal — are  you  really  going  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  a  little  wearily ;  "  I  have  been  be- 


94  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

fore,  yon  know.  Eather  a  bore,  bnt  the  Eainers — yon  re- 
member them,  Miss  Trojan — are  going  over  to  the  Bee- 
thoven Festival  at  Bonn  and  are  keen  on  my  going  with 
them.  I  wasn't  especially  anxious,  but  one  must  do  these 
things,  you  know." 

"  Eobin  was  there  a  year  ago — Germany,  I  mean — and 
loved  it.     Didn't  yon,  Eobin  ?  " 

"  Germany  ?  It  was  Paradise,  Heaven — what  you  will. 
Eiigen,  the  Harz,  Heidelberg,  Worms — "  He  stopped  and 
his  voice  broke.  "  I'm  a  little  absurd  about  it  still,"  he 
said,  as  though  in  apology  for  such  unnecessary  enthusi- 
asm. 

"  Oh !  you're  young,  Eobin,"  said  Eandal,  laughing. 
"  When  you've  seen  as  much  as  I  have  you'll  be  blase. 
Not  that  one  ought  to  be,  but  Germany — well,  it  hardly 
lasts,  I  think.  Eiigen — why,  it  rain-rained  and  there  were 
mists  round  the  Studenkammer,  and  how  those  people  eat 
at  the  Jagdschloss.  Heidelberg!  picture  postcards  and 
shocking  hotels — Oh !  No,  Eobin,  you'll  see  all  that  later. 
I  wish  you  were  going  instead  of  me,  though." 

Harry  had  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  Eobin's  voice. 
It  had  been  a  new  note.  There  had  been  an  eagerness,  an 
enthusiasm,  that  meant  life  and  something  genuine. 

Hope  that  had  been  slowly  dying  revived  again.  If 
Eobin  really  cared  for  Germany  like  that,  then  they  had 
something  in  common.  With  that  spark  a  fire  might  be 
kindled.  A  red-gold  haze  as  of  fire  burnt  in  the  night  sky, 
over  the  town.  Stars  danced  overhead,  a  little  wind,  beat- 
ing fitfully  at  the  window,  seemed  to  carry  the  light  of  the 
moon  in  its  tempestuous  track,  blowing  it  lightly  in  silver 
mists  and  clouds  over  the  moor.  The  Wise  Men  were 
there,   strong  and  dark  and  sombre,   watching  over  the 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  95 

liglited  toTvn  and  listening  patiently  to  the  ripple  and  mur- 
mur and  life  of  the  sea  at  their  feet.  In  the  little  inn  at 
the  Cove  men  were  sitting  over  the  roaring  fire,  telling 
tales — strange,  weird  stories  of  a  life  that  these  others  did 
not  know.  Harry  had  heard  them  when  he  was  a  boy — 
those  stories — and  he  had  felt  the  spell  and  the  magic. 
There  had  been  life  in  them  and  romance. 

Perhaps  they  were  there  again  to-night,  just  as  they 
had  been  twenty  years  before.  The  stars  called  to  him, 
the  lighted  town,  the  dusky,  softly  breathing  sea,  the  lone- 
liness of  the  moor.  He  must  get  out  and  away.  He  must 
have  sympathy  and  warmth  and  friendship ;  he  had  come 
back  to  his  own  people  with  open  arms  and  they  had  no 
place  for  him.  His  own  son  had  repulsed  him.  But 
Cornwall,  the  country  of  his  dreams,  the  mother  of  his 
faith,  the  guardian  of  his  honour,  was  there — the  same 
yesterday,  to-day,  and  for  ever.  He  would  search  for  her 
and  would  find  her — even  though  it  were  on  the  red-brick 
floor  of  the  tavern  in  the  Cove. 

He  turned  round  and  found  that  the  room  was  empty. 
They  had  forgotten  him  and  left  him — without  a  word. 
The  light  of  the  lamp  caught  the  silver  of  the  tea-things, 
and  flashed  and  sparkled  like  a  flame. 

Harry  Trojan  softly  opened  the  door,  passed  into  the  dim 
twilight  of  the  hall,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  stepped  into  the 
garden. 


CHAPTER  V 

AS  he  felt  the  crunch  of  the  gravel  beneath  his  feet  he 
was  possessed  with  the  sj^irit  of  adventure.  The 
dark  house  behind  him  had  been  holding  him  captive.  It 
had  held  him  against  his  will,  imprisoning  him,  torment- 
ing him,  and  the  tortures  that  he  had  endured  were  many 
and  severe.  He  had  not  known  that  he  could  have  felt  it 
so  much — that  absolute  rejection  of  him  by  everything  in 
which  he  had  trusted ;  but  he  would  mind  these  things  no 
longer — he  would  even  try  not  to  mind  Eobin!  That 
would  be  hard,  and  as  he  thought  of  it  even  now  for  a  mo- 
ment tears  had  filled  his  eyes.  That,  however,  was  coward- 
ice. He  must  fling  away  the  hopes  of  twenty  years  and 
start  afresh,  with  the  knowledge  won  of  his  experience  and 
the  strength  that  he  had  snatched  from  his  wounds. 

And  after  all  a  man  was  a  fool  to  mope  and  whine  when 
that  wind  from  the  sea  was  beating  in  his  ears  and  the  sea 
scents  of  clover  and  poppies  and  salt  stinging  foam  were 
brought  to  his  nostrils,  and  the  trees  rustled  like  the  beat- 
ing of  birds'  wings  in  the  velvety  star-lighted  sky. 

A  garden  was  wonderful  at  night — a  place  of  strange 

silences  and  yet  stranger  sound :  trees  darkly  guarding 

mysterious  paths  that  ran  into  caverns  of  darkness;  the 

scents  of  flowers  rising  from  damp  earth  heavy  with  dew ; 

flowers  that  were  weary  with  the  dust  and  noise  of  the  day 

and  slept  gently,  gratefull}^,  with  their  heads   drooping 

to  the  soil,  their  petals  closed  by  the  tender  hands  of  the 

96 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  97 

sj^irits  of  the  garden.  The  night-sounds  were  strangely 
musical.  Cries  that  were  discordant  in  the  day  mingled 
now  with  the  running  of  distant  water,  the  last  notes  of 
some  bird  before  it  slept,  the  measured  harmony  of  a  far- 
away bell,  the  gentle  rustle  of  some  arrival  in  the  thickets ; 
the  voice  that  could  not  be  heard  in  the  noisy  chatter  of 
the  day  rose  softly  now  in  a  little  song  of  the  night  and 
the  dark  trees  and  the  silver  firelight  of  the  stars. 

And  it  was  all  very  romantic,  of  course.  Harry  Trojan 
had  flung  his  cares  behind  him  and  stepped  over  the  soft 
turf  of  the  lawns,  a  free  adventurer.  It  was  not  really 
very  late,  and  there  was  an  hour  before  dinner ;  but  he  was 
not  sure  that  he  minded  about  that — they  would  be  glad 
to  dine  without  him.  There  crossed  his  mind  the  memory 
of  a  night  in  New  Zealand.  He  had  been  walking  down 
to  the  harbour  in  Auckland,  and  the  moon  had  shone  in  the 
crooked  water-side  streets,  its  white,  cold  light  crossed  with 
dark  black  shadows  of  roofs  and  gables.  Suddenly  a 
woman's  voice  called  for  help  across  the  silence,  and  he 
had  turned  and  listened.  It  had  called  again,  and,  think- 
ing that  he  might  help  some  one  in  distress,  he  had  burst  a 
dark,  silent  door,  stumbled  up  crooked  wooden  stairs,  and 
entered  an  empty  room.  As  he  passed  the  door  there  was 
a  sound  of  skirts,  and  a  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  room 
had  closed.  There  was  no  one  there,  only  a  candle  gutter- 
ing on  the  table,  the  remains  of  a  meal,  a  woman's  hat  on 
the  back  of  a  chair ;  he  had  waited  for  some  time  in  silence, 
he  had  called  and  asked  if  there  was  any  one  there,  he  had 
tried  the  farther  door  and  found  it  shut — and  so,  cursing 
himself  for  a  fool,  he  had  passed  down  into  the  street  again 
and  the  episode  had  ended.  There  was  really  nothing  in 
it — nothing  at  allj  but  it  was  the  atmosphere,  the  atmos- 


98  THE  WOODED  HORSE 

pliere  of  romantic  adventure  shot  suddenly  across  a  rather 
drab  and  colourless  existence,  and  he  had  liked  to  dwell  on 
the  possibilities  of  the  affair  and  ask  himself  about  it. 
Who  was  the  woman,  and  why  had  she  cried  out  ?  Why 
was  there  no  one  in  the  room  ?  And  why  had  no  one  an- 
swered him  ? 

He  did  not  know  and  really  he  did  not  care,  and,  in- 
deed, it  was  better  that  the  affair  should  be  left  in  vague 
and  incomplete  outline.  It  was  probably  commonplace 
enough,  had  one  only  known,  and  sordid,  too,  perhaps. 
But  to-night  was  just  such  a  night  as  that  other.  He 
would  go  to  the  Cove  and  find  his  romance  where  he  had 
left  it  twenty  years  ago.  It  was  the  hour  in  Pendragon 
when  shops  are  closing  and  young  men  and  maidens  walk 
out.  There  were  a  great  many  people  in  the  street ;  girls 
with  large  feathers  and  white,  tired  faces,  young  men  with 
bright  ties  and  a  self-assertive  air — a  type  of  person  new 
to  Pendragon  since  Harry's  day.  The  young  man  who 
served  you  respectfully,  almost  timidly,  behind  the  counter 
was  now  self-assertive,  taking  the  middle  of  the  street  with 
a  flourish  of  his  cane.  Fragments  of  conversation  came  to 
Harry's  ears — 

"  Mother  being  out  I  thought  as  'ow  I  might  venture 
— not  but  what  she'd  kick  up  a  rare  old  fuss " 

"  So  I  told  'er  it  weren't  no  business  of  'ers  and  the 
sooner  she  caught  on  to  the  idea  the  better  for  all  parties, 
seein'  as  'ow " 

"  Well,  I  never  did !  and  you  told  'im  that,  did  yer  ? 
I  always  said  you'd  some  pluck  if  you  really  wanted 
to " 

A  gramophone  from  an  open  window  up  the  street 
shrieked  the  alluring  refrain  of  "  She's  a  different  girl 


THE  WOODEX  HOESE  99 

affain,"  and  a  man  who  had  established  himself  at  the  cor- 
ner  under  the  protecting  glare  of  two  hissing  gas-jets  urged 
on  the  company  present  an  immediate  acceptance  of  his 
stupendous  offer.  "  Gold  watches  for  'alf  a  crown — posi- 
tively for  one  evening  in  order  to  clear — all  above  board. 

u  o 

Solid  gold  and  cheap  at  a  sovereign." 

The  plunge  into  the  cool  depths  of  the  winding  little  path 
that  led  do^vn  to  the  Cove  was  delicious.  Oh !  the  con- 
trast of  it !  The  noise  and  ugly  self-assertion  of  the  to\vn, 
flinging  its  gas-jets  against  the  moon  and  covering  the  roll 
of  the  sea  with  the  shriek  of  the  gramophone.  He  crossed 
through  the  turnstile  at  the  bend  of  the  road  and  passed  up 
the  hill  that  led  to  the  Cove.  At  a  bend  the  view  of  the 
sea  came  to  him,  the  white  moonlight  lying,  a  path  of  danc- 
ing shining  silver,  on  the  grey  sweep  of  the  sea.  A  wind 
was  blowing,  turning  the  grey  into  sudden  points  of  white 
— like  ghostly  hands  rising  for  a  moment  suddenly  from 
immensity  and  then  sinking  silently  again,  their  prayers 
unanswered. 

As  he  passed  up  the  hill  he  was  aware  of  something  pat- 
tering beside  him ;  at  first  it  was  a  little  uncanny  in  that 
dim,  uncertain  light,  and  he  stopped  and  bent  down  to  the 
road.  It  was  a  dog,  a  fox-terrier  of  a  kind,  dirty,  and  even 
in  that  light  most  obviously  a  mongTel.  But  it  jumped  uj) 
at  him  and  put  its  paws  on  his  knee. 

"  Well,  company's  company,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  don't  know  where  you've  sprung  from,  but  we'll  travel 
together  for  a  bit."  The  dog  ran  up  the  hill,  and  for  a 
moment  stood  out  against  the  moon — a  shaggy,  disreputable 
dog  with  a  humorous  stump  of  a  tail.  He  stood  there 
with  one  ear  flapping  back  and  the  other  cocked  up — a  most 
ridiculous  figure. 


100  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

Harry  laughed  again  and  the  dog  barked ;  they  walked 
-down  the  hill  together. 

The  Cove  was  dark,  but  from  behind  shuttered  windows 
lamps  twinkled  mysteriously,  and  the  red  glow  from  the 
inn  flung  a  circle  of  light  down  the  little  cobbled  street. 
The  beat  of  the  sea  came  solemnly  like  the  tramp  of  in- 
visible armies  from  the  distance.  There  was  no  other 
sound  save  the  tremble  of  the  wind  in  the  trees. 

Harry  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  inn  and  entered, 
followed  by  the  dog.  The  place  was  the  same;  nothing 
had  been  changed.  There  was  the  old  wooden  gallery 
where  the  fiddle  had  played  such  merry  tunes.  The  rough 
uneven  floor  had  the  same  holes,  the  same  hills  and  dales. 
The  great  settle  by  the  fire  was  marked,  as  in  former  years, 
with  mysterious  crosses  and  initials  cut  by  jack-knives  in 
olden  days.  The  two  lamps  shone  in  their  accustomed 
places — one  over  the  fire,  another  by  the  window.  The 
door  leading  to  the  bar  was  half  open,  and  in  the  distance 
voices  could  be  heard,  but  the  room  itself  seemed  to  he 
•empty. 

A  great  fire  leapt  in  the  fireplace  and  the  gold  light  of  it 
danced  on  the  red-brick  floor ;  the  peculiar  scent  as  of  to- 
bacco and  ale  and  the  salt  of  the  sea,  and,  faintly,  the 
breath  of  mignonette  and  geraniums,  struck  out  the  long 
intervals  since  Harry  had  been  there  before.  Twenty 
years  ago  he  had  breathed  the  same  air;  and  now  he  was 
back  there  again  and  nothing  was  changed.  The  dog  had 
run  to  the  fire  and  sat  in  front  of  it  now,  wagging  his 
stump  of  a  tail,  his  ear  cocked.  Harry  laughed  and  sat 
down  in  the  settle;  the  burden  of  the  last  week  was  flung 
off  and  he  was  a  free  man. 

A  long,  lean  man  with  a  straggling  beard  stood  in  the 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  101 

doorway  and  watched  liim ;  then  he  came  forward.     "  Mr. 
Harry,"  he  said,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Harry  started  np.  "  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  stammerings 
"  I  don't  remember," 

"  We  were  wonderin',"  said  the  long,  thin  man  slowly,. 
"  when  you  were  coming  down.  Not  that  you'd  remember 
faces — that's  not  to  be  expected — especially  in  furrin 
parts  which  is  confusing  and  difficult  for  a  man — but  I'm 
Bill  Tregarvis  what  have  had  3'ou  out  fishin'  many's  the 
time — not  that  you'd  remember  faces,"  he  said  again,  look- 
ing a  little  timidly  at  him. 

But  he  did !  Harry  remembered  him  perfectly  I 
Bill  Tregarvis !  Why,  of  course — many  was  the  time  they 
had  seen  life  together — he  had  had  a  wife  and  two  boys. 

Harry  wrung  his  hand  and  laughed. 

"  Remember,  Bill !  Why,  of  course !  It  was  only  for  a 
moment.  I  had  got  the  face  all  right  but  not  the  name. 
Yes,  I  have,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  come  before,  but  there 
were  things  that  have  made  it  difficult  at  first,  and  of 
course  there  was  a  lot  to  do  up  there.  But  it's  good  to  be 
down  here !  The  other  place  is  changed ;  I  had  been  a  bit 
disappointed,  but  here  it  is  just  the  same — the  same  old 
lights  and  smells  and  sea,  and  the  same  old  friends " 

"  Yer  think  that  ?  "  Tregarvis  looked  at  him.  "  Be- 
cause we'd  been  fearing  that  all  your  travelling  and  sight- 
seeing might  have  harmed  you — that  you'd  be  thinking  a 
bit  like  the  folk  up-along  with  their  cars  and  gas  and 
filth.  Aye,  it's  a  changed  world  up  there,  Mr.  Harry ;  but 
down-along  there's  no  difference.  It's  the  sea  kee^^s  us 
steady." 

And  then  they  talked  about  the  old  adventurous  days 
when  Harry  had  been  eighteen  and  the  world  had  been  a 


102  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

very  wonderful  place :  the  herring  fishing,  the  hathing,  the 
adventures  on  the  moor,  the  tales  at  night  by  candlelight, 
the  fun  of  it  all.  The  room  began  to  fill,  and  one  after  an- 
other men  came  forward  and  claimed  friendship  on  the 
score  of  old  days  and  perils  shared.  They  received  him 
quite  simply — he  was  "  Mr.  Harry,"  but  still  one  of  them- 
selves, taking  his  place  with  them,  telling  tales  and  hear- 
ing them  in  return. 

There  were  nine  or  ten  of  them,  and  a  wild  company 
they  made,  crowding  round  the  fire,  with  the  flames  leaping 
and  flinging  gigantic  shadows  on  the  walls.  The  land- 
lord, a  short,  ruddy-faced  man  with  white  hair  and  a  merry 
twinkle  of  the  eye,  was  one  of  the  best  men  that  Harry 
had  ever  known. 

He  was  a  man  whose  modesty  was  only  equalled  by  his 
charity ;  a  man  of  great  humour,  wide  knowledge  of  the 
most  varied  subjects,  and  above  all  a  passionate  faith  in  the 
country  of  his  birth,  Cornwall.  He  was,  like  most  Cor- 
nishmen,  superstitious,  but  his  belief  in  ISTature  as  a  wise 
and  beneficent  mother,  stern  but  never  unjust,  controlled 
his  will  and  justified  his  actions.  In  those  early  days 
Harry  had  worshipped  him  with  that  whole-hearted  adora- 
tion bestowed  at  times  by  young  hero-worshippers  on  those 
that  have  travelled  a  little  way  along  the  path  and  have 
learnt  their  lesson  wisely.  Tony  JSTewsome's  influence  had 
done  more  for  Harry  in  those  early  years  than  he  had 
realised,  but  he  knew  now  what  he  owed  to  him  as  he  sat 
by  his  side  and  recalled  those  other  days.  They  had  writ- 
ten once  or  twice,  but  Tony  was  no  correspondent  and  hated 
to  have  a  pen  between  his  fingers. 

"  Drive  a  horse,  pull  a  boat,  shoot  a  gun,  mind  a  net — 
but  God  help  me  if  I  write,"  he  had  said.     'Not  that  he 


THE  WOODEX  HOESE  103 

objected  to  books ;  he  bad  read  a  good  deal  and  cared  for  it 
— but  "  God's  air  in  the  day  and  a  merry  fire  at  night 
leaves  little  room  for  pen  and  ink  "  was  his  justification. 

He  treated  Harry  now  as  his  boy  of  twenty  years  ago, 
and  laughed  at  him  and  scolded  him  as  of  old.  He  did  not 
question  him  very  closely  on  the  incidents  of  those  twenty 
years,  and  indeed,  with  them  all,  Harry  noticed  that  there 
was  very  little  curiosity  as  to  those  other  countries.  They 
welcomed  him  quietly,  simply.  They  were  glad  that  he 
was  there  again,  sitting  with  them,  taking  his  place  natu- 
rally and  easily — and  again  the  twenty  years  seemed  as 
nothing. 

He  sat  with  the  dog  at  his  feet,  l^ewsome's  hand  was 
on  his  knee,  and  every  now  and  again  he  gave  a  smothered 
chuckle.  "  I  knew  you'd  come  back,  Mr.  Harry,"  he  said. 
*'  I. just  waited.  Once  the  sea  has  got  hold  of  you  it  doesn't 
loosen  its  grip  so  quick.     I  knew  you'd  come  back." 

They  told  wild  stories  as  they  had  been  telling  them  for 
many  years  at  the  same  hour  in  the  same  place.  Strange 
things  seen  at  sea,  the  lights  and  mists  of  the  moor,  sur- 
vivals of  smuggling  days  and  fights  on  the  beach  under  the 
moon ;  and  it  always  was  the  sea.  They  might  leave  it  for 
a  moment  perhaps,  but  they  came  back  to  it — the  terror 
of  it,  the  joy  of  it,  the  cruelty  of  it ;  the  mistress  that  held 
them  chained,  that  called  their  children  and  would  not  be 
denied,  the  god  that  they  served. 

They  spoke  of  her  softly  with  lowered  voices  and  a 
strange  reverence.  They  had  learnt  her  moods  and  her 
dangers;  they  knew  that  she  could  caress  them,  and  then, 
of  a  sudden,  strike  them  down — but  they  loved  her. 

And  she  had  claimed  Harry  again.  Everything  for 
which  he  had  been  longing  during  that  past  week  had  come 


104:  THE  WOODEN  HOKSE 

to  him  at  last;  their  friendship,  their  faith  in  an  old 
god,  and  above  all  that  sense  of  a  great  adventure  for  the 
■spirit  of  which  he  had  so  diligently  been  searching.  "  Up- 
along  "  life  was  an  affair  of  measured  rules  and  things  fore- 
seen. "  Dovm-along  "  it  was  a  game  of  unending  surprises 
and  a  gossamer  web  shot  with  the  golden  light  of  romance. 
High-falutin'  perhaps,  but  to  Harry,  as  he  sat  before  the 
fire  with  the  strange  dog  and  those  ten  wild  men,  words 
and  pictures  came  too  speedily  to  admit  of  a  sense  of  the 
absurd. 

An  old  man,  with  a  long  white  beard  and  a  shaking 
hand,  knew  strange  tales  of  the  moor.  When  the  mists 
creep  up  and  blot  out  the  land,  then  the  four  grey  stones 
take  life  and  are  the  giants  of  old,  and  strange  sacrifices 
are  grimly  performed.  Talse  Carlyon  had  seen  things 
late  on  a  moonlit  night  with  the  mists  swimming  white  and 
silver-grey  over  the  moor.  He  had  lost  his  way  and  had 
met  a  man  of  mighty  size  who  had  led  him  by  the  hand. 
There  had  been  spirits  about,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  grey 
stone  a  pool  of  blood — he  had  never  been  the  same  man 
since. 
^"^  "  There  are  spirits  and  spirits,"  said  the  old  man  sol- 
emnly, "  and  there  be  some  that  are  good  and  some  that  are" 
bad  for  the  proper  edification  of  us  mortals,  and,  for  my 
part,  it's  not  for  the  likes  of  us  to  meddle." 
. —  He  stroked  his  beard — a  very  gloomy  old  man  with  a 
blind  eye.  Harry  remembered  that  he  had  had  a  wife 
twenty  years  before,  so  he  inquired  about  her. 

"  Dead,"  said  the  old  man  fiercely,  "  dead — and,  thank 
God,  she  went  out  like  a  candle." 

He  muttered  this  so  fiercely  that  Harry  said  no  more, 
and  the  white  beard  shone  in  the  light  of  the  fire,  and  his 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  105 

blind  eye  opened  and  shut  like  a  box,  and  his  wrinkled 
hand  shook  on  his  knee.  The  fishing  had  been  bad  of  late, 
and  here  again  they  spoke  as  if  some  personal  power  had 
been  at  work.  There  were  few  there  who  had  not  lost 
some  one  during  the  years  that  they  had  served  her,  and 
the  memory  of  what  this  had  been  and  the  foreshadowing 
of  the  dangerous  future  hung  over  them  in  the  room. 
Songs  were  sung,  jokes  were  made,  but  they  were  the  songs 
and  laughter  of  men  on  guard,  with  the  enemy  to  be  en- 
countered, perhaps,  in  the  morning. 

Harry  sat  in  his  corner  of  the  great  seat,  watching  the 
leaping  of  the  flames,  his  hand  on  Xewsome's  shoulder, 
listening  to  the  murmuring  voices  at  his  side.  He  scarcely 
knew  whether  he  were  awake  or  sleeping;  their  laughter 
came  to  him  dimly,  and  it  seemed  that  he  was  alone  there 
with  only  Xewsome  by  his  side  and  the  dog  sleeping  at 
his  feet.  The  tobacco  smoke  hung  in  grey-blue  wreaths 
above  his  head  and  the  gold  light  of  the  two  lamps  shone 
mistily,  without  shape  or  form.  Perhaps  it  was  really 
a  dream.  The  old  man  with  the  white  beard  and  the  blind 
eye  was  sleeping,  his  head  on  his  breast;  a  man  with  a 
vacant  expression  was  telling  a  tale,  heavily,  slowly,  gazing 
at  the  fire.  The  others  were  not  listening — or  at  any  rate 
not  obviously  so.  They,  too,  gazed  at  the  fire — it  had, 
as  it  were,  become  personal  and  mesmerised  the  room. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  dream.  He  would  wake  and  find  himself 
at  "  The  Flutes."  There  would  be  Clare  and  Garrett  and 
— Eobin !  He  would  pull  all  that  away  now ;  he  would 
forget  it  for  a  moment,  at  least.  He  had  failed  them ;  they 
had  not  wanted  him  and  had  told  him  so — but  here  they 
had  known  him  and  loved  him ;  they  had  welcomed  him 
back  as  though  there  had  been  no  intervening  space  of 


106  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

years.  Tbej  at  least  had  known  what  life  was.  They  had 
not  played  with  it,  like  those  others.  They  had  not  sur- 
rounded themselves  with  barricades  of  artificiality,  and 
glanced  through  distorting  mirrors  at  their  own  exaggerated 
reflection ;  they  had  seen  life  simply,  fearlessly,  accepting 
their  peril  like  men  and  enjoying  their  fate  with  the  great- 
ness of  soul" that  simplicity  had  given  them.  They  were 
not  like  those  others ;  those  on  the  hill  had  invaded  the  sea 
with  noisy  clamour,  had  greeted  her  familiarly  and  of- 
fered her  bathing-machines  and  electric  trams ;  these  others 
had  reverenced  her  and  learnt  to  know  her,  alone  on  the 
downs  in  the  first  grey  of  the  dawn,  or  secretly,  when  the 
breakers  had  rolled  in  over  the  sand,  carrying  with  them 
the  red  and  gold  of  some  gorgeous  sunset. 
■  He  contrasted  them  in  his  mind — the  Trojans  and  the 
Greeks.  He  turned  round  a  little  in  his  seat  and  listened 
to  the  story :  "  It  were  a  man — a  strange  man  with  horns 
and  hoofs,  so  he  said — and  a  merry,  deceiving  eye;  but 
he  couldn't  see  him  clear  because  of  the  mist  that  hung 
there,  with  the  moon  pushing  through  like  a  candle  he 
said.  The  man  was  laughing  to  himself  and  playing  with 
leaves  that  danced  at  his  feet  under  the  wind.  It  can't 
have  been  far  from  the  town,  because  Joe  heard  St. 
Elmo's  bell  ringin'  and  he  could  hear  the  sea  quite  plain. 
He.  .  .  ." 

The  voice  seemed  to  trail  oif  again  into  the  distance; 
Harry's  thoughts  were  with  his  future.  What  was  he  to 
do?  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  crisis  had  come  and  was 
now  facing  him.  Should  he  stay  or  should  he  flee  ?  Why 
should  he  not  escape — away  into  the  country,  where  he 
could  live  his  life  without  fear,  where  there  would  be  no 
contempt,  no  hampering  family  traditions  ?     Should  he 


THE  WOODEl^  HOESE  107 

stay  and  wait  while  Robin  learnt  to  hate  him?  At  the 
thought  his  face  grew  white  and  he  clenched  his  hands, 
Robin.  .  .  .  Robin.  .  .  .  Robin.  ...  it  always  came 
back  to  that — and  there  seemed  no  answer.  That  dream 
of  love  between  father  and  son,  the  dream  that  he  had  cher- 
ished for  twenty  years,  was  shattered,  and  the  bubble  had 
burst.  .  .  . 

"  So  Joe  said  he  didn't  know  but  he  thought  it  was  to  the 
left  and  down  through  the  Cove — to  the  old  church  he 
meant;  and  the  man  laughed  and  danced  with  the  leaves 
through  the  mist ;  and  once  Joe  thought  he  was  gone,  and 
there  he  was  back  again,  laughin'." 

JSTo,  he  would  face  it.  He  would  take  his  place  as  he 
had  intended — he  would  show  them  of  what  stuff  he  was 
made — and- Robin  would  see,  at  last.  The  boy  was  young, 
it  would  of  course  take  time 

The  door  of  the  inn  opened  and  some  one  came  in.  The 
lamps  flared  in  the  wind,  and  there  was  a  cry  from  the  fire- 
place.    "  Mr.  Bethel !     Well,  I'm  right  glad !  " 

Harry  started.  Bethel — that  had  been  the  name  of  his 
friend — the  girl  who  had  come  to  tea.  The  new-comer 
was  a  large  man,  over  six  feet  in  height,  and  correspond- 
ingly broad.  His  head  was  bare,  and  his  hair  was  a  little 
long  and  curly.  His  eyes  were  blue  and  twinkled,  and  his 
face  was  pleasantly  humorous  and,  in  the  mouth  and 
chin,  strong  and  determined.  He  wore  a  grey  flannel  suit 
with  a  flannel  collar,  and  he  was  smoking  a  pipe  of  enor- 
mous size.  J^ewsome  started  to  his  feet  and  went  forward 
to  meet  him.  Bethel  came  to  the  fire  and  talked  to  them 
all ;  there  was  obviously  a  free  camaraderie — a  companion- 
shij) — between  them  that  told  of  long  acquaintance.  He 
was  introduced  to  Harry. 


108  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 


u 


I've  heard  of  you,  Mr.  Trojan,"  he  said,  "  and  have 
been  expecting  to  meet  you.  I  think  that  V7e  have  interests 
in  common — at  least  an  affection  for  Cornwall." 

Harry  liked  him.  He  looked  at  him  frankly,  between 
the  eyes — there  was  no  hesitation  or  disguise;  there  had 
been  no  barrier  or  division  between  them ;  and  Harry  was 
grateful. 

Bethel  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  a  discussion  followed 
about  matters  of  which  Harry  knew  nothing.  There  was 
talk  of  the  fishing,  and  prospects  which  were  bad ;  a  gloom 
fell  upon  them  all  and  they  cursed  the  new  Pendragon — 
the  race  had  grown  too  fast  for  them  and  competition  was 
too  keen.  But  Harry  noticed  that  they  did  not  yet  seem  to 
have  heard  of  the  proposed  destruction  of  the  Cove.  Then 
he  got  up  to  go.  They  asked  him  to  come  again,  and  he 
promised  that  he  would.     Bethel  rose  too. 

"  If  you  don't  object,  Mr.  Trojan,"  he  said,  "  I'll  make 
one  with  you.  I  had  only  looked  in  for  a  moment  and  had 
never  intended  to  stay.  I  was  on  my  way  back  to  the 
town." 

They  went  out  into  the  street  together,  and  Harry  shiv- 
ered for  a  moment  as  the  wind  from  the  sea  met  them. 

"  Ah,  that's  good,"  Bethel  said ;  "  your  fires  are  well 
enough,  but  that  wind  is  worth  a  bag  of  gold." 

They  walked  for  a  little  in  silence,  and  then  Harry  said : 
"  Those  are  a  fine  lot  of  men.     They  know  what  life  really 


is." 


Bethel  laughed.  "  I  know  what  you  feel  about  them. 
You  are  glad  that  there's  no  change.  Twenty  years  has 
made  little  difference  there.  It  is  twenty  years,  isn't 
it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Harry.     "  One  thinks  that  it  is  nothing 


\ 


THE  WOODE^T  HOESE  109 

until  one  comes  back,  and  then  one  thinks  that  it's  more 
than  it  really  is." 

"  Yes,  you're  disappointed,"  Bethel  said.  "  I  know. 
Pendragon  has  become  popular,  and  to  your  mind  that  has 
destroyed  its  beauty — or,  at  any  rate,  some  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  hate  it,"  Harry  said  fiercely,  "  all  this  noise 
and  show.  Why  couldn't  they  have  left  Pendragon  alone  ? 
I  don't  hate  it  for  big  places  that  are,  as  it  were,  in  the  line 
of  march.  I  suppose  that  they  must  move  with  the  day. 
That  is  inevitable.  But  Pendragon !  Why — when  I  was 
a  boy,  it  was  simply  a  little  grey  town  by  the  sea.  No  one 
thought  about  it  or  worried  about  it ;  it  was  a  place  won- 
derfully quiet  and  simple.  It  was  too  quiet  for  me  then ; 
I  should  worship  it  now.  But  I  have  come  back  and  it 
has  no  place  for  me." 

"  I  haven't  known  it  as  long  as  you  have,"  Bethel  an- 
swered, "  but  I  confess  that  the  very  charm  of  it  lies  in  its 
contrast.  It  is  invasion,  if  you  like,  but  for  that  very 
reason  exciting — two  forces  at  work  and  a  battle  in  prog- 
ress." 

"  With  no  doubt  as  to  the  ultimate  victory,"  said  Harry 
gloomily.  "  Yes,  I  see  what  you  mean  by  the  contrast. 
But  I  cannot  stand  there  and  see  them  dispassionately — 
you  see  I  am  bound  up  with  so  much  of  it.  Those  men  to- 
night were  my  friends  when  I  was  a  boy.  IS^ewsome  is  the 
best  man  that  I  have  ever  known,  and  there  is  the  place, 
I  love  every  stone  of  it — and  they  would  pull  it  down." 

They  had  left  the  Cove  and  were  pressing  up  a  steep 
path  to  the  moor.  The  moon  was  struggling  through  a 
bank  of  clouds;  the  wind  was  whistling  over  their  heads, 
bringing  with  it  the  bleating  of  sheep  on  the  moor. 

Bethel  suddenly  stopped  and  turned  towards  Harr}\ 


110  THE  WOODElsr  HOIiSE 

"  Mr.  Trojan,"  lie  said,  "  I'm  going  to  be  impulsive  and 
perhaps  imprudent.  There's  nothing  an  Englishman  fears 
so  much  as  impulse,  and  he  is  terribly  ashamed  of  impru- 
dence. But,  after  all,  there  is  no  time  to  waste,  and  if  you 
think  me  impertinent  you  have  only  to  say  so,  and  the 
matter  ends." 

Harry  laughed.  "  I  am  delighted,"  he  began,  but  the 
other  stopped  him, 

"  ISTo,  wait  a  moment.  You  don't  know.  I'm  afraid 
you'll  think  that  I'm  absurd — -most  people  will  tell  you 
that  I  am  worse.  I  want  you  to  try  to  be  a  friend  of  mine, 
at  any  rate  to  give  me  a  chance.  I  scarcely  know  you — 
you  don't  know  me  at  all — but  one  goes  on  first  impres- 
sions, and  I  believe  that  you  would  understand  a  little  bet- 
ter than  most  of  these  people  here — for  one  thing  you  have 
gone  farther  and  seen  more " 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Harry  was  surprised.  Here 
was  what  he  had  been  wanting — friendship ;  a  week  ago  he 
would  have  seized  it  with  both  hands ;  now  he  was  a  little 
distrustful;  a  week  ago  it  would  have  been  natural,  de- 
lightful, now  it  was  unusual,  even  a  little  absurd. 

"  I  should  be  very  glad,"  he  said  gravely.  "  I — 
scarcely " 

"  Oh,"  Bethel  broke  in,  "  we  shall  come  together  natur- 
ally— there's  no  fear  of  that.  I  could  see  at  once  that  you 
know  the  mysteries  of  this  place  just  as  I  do.  Those 
others  here  are  blind.  I've  been  waiting  for  some  one  who 
would  understand.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  listen  to  those 
other  people  about  me ;  they  will  tell  you  a  good  deal — and 
most  of  it's  true.  I  don't  blame  'em,  but  I'm  curiously 
anxious  for  you  not  to  think  with  them.  It's  ridiculous,  I 
know,  when  I  had  never  seen  you  before.     If  you  only 


THE  WOODEK  HORSE  111 

knew  how  long  I'd  been  waiting — to  talk  to  some  one — 
about — all  this." 

He  waved  his  hand  and  they  stopped.  They  were  stand- 
ing on  the  moor.  Above  their  head  mighty  grey  clouds 
were  driving  like  fleets  before  the  wind,  and  the  moon, 
a  cold,  lifeless  thing,  a  moon  of  chiselled  marble,  ap- 
peared, and  then,  as  though  frightened  at  the  wild  flight  of 
the  clouds,  vanished.  The  sea,  pearl  grey,  lay  like  mist 
on  the  horizon,  and  its  voice  was  very  gentle  and  a  little 
tired,  as  though  it  were  slowly  dying  into  sleep.  They 
were  near  the  Four  Stones — gaunt,  grey,  and  very  old. 
The  dog  had  followed  Harry  from  the  inn  and  now  ran,  a 
white  shadow,  in  front  of  him. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,"  Bethel  said,  "  about  myself.  You 
know  I  was  born  in  London — the  son  of  a  doctor  with  a 
very  considerable  practice.  I  received  an  excellent  educa- 
tion, Eugby  and  Cambridge,  and  was  trained  for  the  law. 
I  was,  I  believe,  a  rather  ordinary  person  with  a  rather 
more  than  ordinary  power  of  concentration,  and  I  got  on. 
I  built  up  a  business  and  was  extremely  and  very  conven- 
tionally happy.  I  married  and  we  had  a  little  girl.  And 
then,  one  summer,  we  came  down  to  Cornwall  for  our  holi- 
day. It  was  St.  Ives.  I  remember  that  first  morning  as 
though  it  were  yesterday.  It  was  gTey  with  the  sea  fling- 
ing great  breakers.  There  was  a  smell  of  clover  and  corn- 
flowers in  the  air,  and  great  sheets  of  flaming  poppies  in 
the  cornfields.  But  there  was  more  than  that.  It  was 
Cornwall,  something  magical,  and  that  strange  sense  of 
old  history  and  customs  that  you  get  nowhere  else  in  quite 
the  same  way.  Ah!  but  why  analyse  it? — you  know  as 
well  as  I  do  what  I  mean.  A  new  man  was  born  in  me  that 
day.     I  had  been  sociable  and  fond  of  little  quite  ordinary 


112  THE  WOODEK  HORSE 

pleasures  tliat  came  my  way,  now  I  wanted  to  be  alone. 
Their  conversation  worried  me;  it  seemed  to  be  pointless 
and  concerned  with  things  that  did  not  matter  at  all.  I 
had  done  things  like  other  men — now  it  was  all  to  no  pur- 
pose. I  used  to  lie  for  hours  on  the  cliffs  watching  the  sea. 
I  was  often  out  all  day,  and  I  met  all  sorts  of  people, 
tramps,  wasters,  vagabonds,  and  they  seemed  the  only  peo- 
ple worth  talking  to.  I  met  some  strange  fellows  but  ex- 
cellent company — and  they  knew,  all  of  them,  the  things 
that  I  knew ;  they  had  been  out  all  night  and  seen  the  moon 
and  the  stars  change  and  the  first  light  of  the  dawn,  and 
the  little  breeze  that  comes  in  those  early  hours  from  the 
sea,  bringing  the  winds  of  other  countries  with  it.  And 
they  were  merry,  they  had  a  philosoiohy — they  knew  Corn- 
wall and  believed  in  her. 

"  Well — the  holiday  came  to  an  end,  and  I  had  to  go 
back !  London.  My  God !  After  that  I  struggled — I  went 
to  my  work  every  day  with  the  sound  of  that  sea  in  my  ears 
and  the  vision  of  those  moors  always  there  with  me.  And 
the  freedom!  If  you  have  tasted  that  once,  if  you  have 
ever  got  really  close  so  that  you  can  hear  strange  voices  and 
see  beauties  of  which  you  had  never  dreamt,  well,  you  will 
,  never  get  back  to  your  old  routine  again.  I  don't  care 
how  strong  you  are — you  can't  do  it,  man.  Once  she's 
got  hold  of  you,  nothing  counts.  That  was  eighteen  years 
ago.  I  kept  my  work  for  a  year,  but  it  was  killing  me.  I 
got  ill — I  nearly  died ;  once  I  ran  away  at  night  and  tried 
to  get  to  the  sea.  But  I  came  back — there  were  my  wife 
and  girl.  We  had  a  little  money,  and  I  gave  it  all  up  and 
we  came  to  live  down  here.  I  have  done  nothing  since; 
rather  shameful,  isn't  it,  for  a  strong  man  ?  They  have 
thought  that  here ;  they  think  that  I  am  a  waster — by  their 


THE  WOODEIT  HOKSE  113 

lights  I  am.  But  the  things  I  have  learnt !  I  didn't  know 
what  living  was  until  I  came  here!  I  knew  nothing,  I 
did  nothing,  I  was  a  dead  man.  What  do  I  care  for  their 
thoughts  of  me !     They  are  in  the  dark !  " 

He  had  spoken  eagerly,  almost  breathles-sly.  He  was  de- 
fending his  position,  and  Harry  knew  that  he  had  been 
waiting  for  years  to  say  these  things  to  some  one  of  his 
own  kind  who  would  understand.  And  he  understood  only 
too  well !  Had  he  not  himself  that  very  evening  been 
tempted  to  escape,  to  flee  his  duty.  He  had  resisted,  but 
the  temptation  had  been  very  strong — that  very  voice  of 
Cornwall  of  which  Bethel  had  spoken — and  if  it  were  to 
return  he  did  not  know  what  answer  he  might  give.  But 
he  was  not  thinking  of  Bethel ;  his  thoughts  were  with  the 
wife  and  daughter.  That  poor  pathetic  little  woman — and 
the  girl 

"  And  your  wife  and  daughter  ?  "  he  said.  "  What  of 
them  ?  " 

"  They  are  happy,"  Bethel  said  eagerly.  "  They  are 
indeed.  I  don't  see  them  very  often,  but  they  have  their 
own  interests — and  friends.  My  wife  and  I  never  had 
very  much  in  common — Ah !  you're  going  to  scold,"  he  said, 
laughing,  "  and  say  just  what  all  these  other  horrid  people 
say.  But  I  know.  I  grant  it  you  all.  I'm  a  waster — 
through  and  through;  it's  damnably  selfish — worst  of  all, 
in  this  energetic  and  pushing  age,  it's  idle.  Oh !  I  know 
and  I'm  sorry — but,  do  you  know,  I'm  not  ashamed.  I 
can't  see  it  seriously.  I  wouldn't  harm  a  fly.  Why  can't 
they  let  me  alone  ?     At  least  I  am  happy." 

They  had  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town  by  this 
time  and  Bethel  stopped  before  a  little  dark  house  with  red 
shutters  and  a  tiny  strip  of  garden. 


114  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

"  Here  we  are !  "  said  he.  "  This  is  my  place.  Come 
in  and  smoke!  It  must  be  past  your  dinner  hour  up  at 
*  The  Flutes.'     Come  and  have  something  with  me." 

Harry  laughed.  "  They  have  already  ceased  wondering 
at  my  erratic  habits,"  he  said.  "  New  Zealand  is  a  bad 
place  for  method." 

He  followed  Bethel  in.  It  was  a  tiny  hall,  and  on  enter- 
ing he  stumbled  over  an  umbrella-stand  that  lounged  for- 
ward in  a  rickety  position.  Bethel  apologised.  "  We're 
in  a  bit  of  a  mess,"  he  said.  "  In  fact,  to  tell  the  truth,  we 
always  are !  "  He  hung  his  coat  in  the  hall  and  led  the 
way  into  the  dining-room.  Mrs.  Bethel  and  her  daughter 
came  forward.  The  little  woman  was  amazing  in  a  dress 
of  bright  red  silk  and  an  absurd  little  yellow  lace  cap. 
The  room  was  the  untidiest  place  that  Harry  had  ever  seen. 
Only  half  the  table  was  laid ;  for  the  rest  a  shabby  green 
cloth,  spotted  with  ink,  formed  a  background  for  an  in- 
coherent litter  of  papers  and  needlework.  None  of  the 
pictures  on  the  wall  seemed  to  be  straight.  "  The  Death  of 
Nelson  "  by  the  door  lurched  in  an  insane  manner  towards  a 
queer  old  painting  of  some  Bethel  ancestress,  who,  in  her 
turn,  bent  bashfully  towards  a  photograph  of  some  dim 
and  old-time  wedding  group  now  brown  with  age.  The 
walls  were  lined  with  books  and  there  were  some  piled  on 
the  floor.  One  of  the  window-curtains  hung  disconsolate, 
torn  from  its  nail,  and,  from  the  mouth  of  the  coal-scuttle, 
coal  had  poured  on  to  the  carpet. 

A  cold  shoulder  of  mutton,  baked  potatoes  in  their  skins, 
a  melancholy  glass  dish  containing  celery,  and  a  salad 
bowl  startlingly  empty,  lay  waiting  on  the  table. 

"  Isn't  it  a  mess  ?  "  said  Bethel  cheerfully.  "  We  al- 
ways are,  you  know,  Trojan.     You  must  take  us  as  you 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  116 

find  Tis.     Anne,  I've  bronglit  a  guest — up  with  tlie  family 
port  and  let's  be  festive." 

His  great  body  seemed  to  fill  the  room,  and  he  brought 
■with  him  the  breath  of  the  sea  and  the  wind.  He  began  to 
carve  the  mutton  like  Siegfried  making  battle  with  Fafner, 
and  indeed  again  and  again  during  the  evening  he  re- 
minded Harry  of  Siegfried's  impetuous  humour  and  re- 
joicing animal  spirits. 

Mrs.  Bethel  was  delighted.  Her  little  eyes  twinkled 
with  excitement,  her  yellow  cap  was  pushed  awry,  and  her 
hands  trembled  with  pleasure.  It  was  obvious  that  a  visi- 
tor was  an  unusual  event.  Miss  Bethel  had  said  very  lit- 
tle, but  she  had  given  Harry  that  same  smile  that  he  had 
seen  before.  She  busied  herself  now  with  the  salad, 
and  he  watched  her  white  fingers  shine  imder  the  lamp- 
light and  the  white  curve  of  her  neck  as  she  bent  over  the 
bowl.  She  was  dressed  in  some  dark  stuff — quite  simple 
and  unassuming,  but  he  thought  that  he  had  never  seen 
anything  so  beautiful. 

He  said  very  little,  but  he  was  quietly  happy.  Bethel 
did  not  talk  very  much;  he  was  eating  furiously — not 
greedily,  but  with  great  pleasure  and  satisfaction.  Mrs. 
Bethel  talked  continuously.  Her  eyes  shone  and  her  cap 
bobbed  on  her  head  like  a  live  thing. 

"  I  said,  Mr.  Trojan,  after  our  meeting  the  other  day, 
that  you  would  be  a  friend.  I  said  so  to  Mary  coming 
back.  I  felt  sure  that  first  day.  It  is  so  nice  to  have 
some  one  new  in  Pendragon — one  gets  used,  you  know,  to 
the  same  faces  and  tired  of  them.  In  my  old  home, 
Penlicott  in  Surrey,  near  Marlwood  Beeches — you  change 
at  Grayling  Junction — or  you  used  to;  I  think  you  go 
straight   through  now.     But   there  you  know  we  knew 


116  THE  WOODEN"  HORSE 

everybody.  You  really  couldn't  help  it.  There  was 
really  only  the  Vicar  and  the  Doctor,  and  he  was  so  old. 
Of  course  there  were  the  Draytons ;  you  must  have  heard 
of  Mr.  Herbert  Drayton — he  paints  things — I  really  for- 
get quite  what,  but  I  know  he's  really  good.  They  all 
lived  there — such  a  lot  of  them  and  most  peculiar  in  their 
habits;  but  one  gets  used  to  anything.  They  all  lived 
together  for  some  time,  about  fifteen  there  were.  Mother 
and  I  dined  there  once  or  twice,  and  they  had  the  fun- 
niest dining-room  with  pictures  of  Job  all  round  the  room 
that  were  most  queer  and  rather  disagreeable;  and  they 
all  liked  different  things  to  drink,  so  they  each  had  a 
bottle — of  something — separately.  It  looked  quite  funny 
to  see  the  fifteen  bottles,  and  then  '  Job '  on  the  wall,  you 
know." 

But  he  really  hadn't  paid  very  much  attention  to  her. 
He  had  been  thinking  and  wondering.  How  was  it  that 
a  man  like  Bethel  had  married  such  a  wife?  He  sup' 
posed  that  things  had  been  different  twenty  years  ago, 
with  them  as  with  him.  It  was  strange  to  think  of  the 
difference  that  twenty  years  could  make.  She  had  been, 
perhaps,  a  little  pretty,  dainty  thing  then — the  style  of 
girl  that  a  strong  man  like  Bethel  would  fall  in  love  with. 
Then  he  thought  of  Miss  Bethel — what  was  her  life  with 
a  mother  like  that  and  a  father  who  never  thought  about 
her  at  all  ?  She  must,  he  thought,  be  lonely.  He  almost 
hoped  that  she  was.  It  gave  them  kinship,  because  he 
was  lonely  too.  The  conversation  was  not  very  animated ; 
Mrs.  Bethel  was  suddenly  silent — she  seemed  to  have 
collapsed  with  the  effort,  and  sat  huddled  up  in  her  chair, 
with  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

He  realised  that  he  had  said  nothing  to  Miss  Bethel,  and 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  117 

lie  turned  to  her.  "  You  know  London  ?  "  he  said.  He 
wondered  whether  she  longed  for  it  sometimes — its  ex- 
citement and  life. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  said  quickly ;  "  we  were  there,  you  know, 
a  long  while  ago,  and  I've  been  up  once  or  twice  since. 
But  it  makes  one  feel  so  dreadfully  small,  as  if  one  simply 
didn't  count,  and  no  woman  likes  that,  you  know." 

"  Pendragon  makes  one  feel  smaller,"  Harry  said. 
"  When  one  is  of  no  account  even  in  a  small  place,  then 
one  is  small  indeed." 

He  had  not  intended  to  speak  bitterly,  but  she  had 
caught  the  sound  of  it  in  his  voice  and  she  was  suddenly 
sorry  for  him.  She  had  been  a  little  afraid  of  him  be- 
fore— even  on  that  terrible  afternoon  at  "  The  Flutes  " ; 
but  now  she  saw  that  he  was  disappointed — he  had  ex- 
pected something  and  it  had  failed  him. 

She  said  nothing  then,  and  the  meal  came  to  an  end. 
Bethel  dragged  Harry  into  his  study  to  see  the  books. 
There  was  the  same  untidiness  here.  The  table  was  lit- 
tered with  papers  and  pens,  tobacco  jars,  numerous  pipes, 
some  photographs.  From  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  were 
books — rows  on  rows — flung  apparently  into  the  shelves 
with  no  order  or  method,  and  the  room  was  thick  with 
dust.  The  window-curtains  were  dirty  and  the  carpet 
terribly  shabby,  and  several  of  the  chairs  seemed  unsafe 
and  dilapidated. 

"  I'm  no  good  as  far  as  books  go,"  said  Harry,  laugh- 
ing. "  There  never  was  such  a  heathen.  There  have  al- 
ways been  other  things  to  do,  and  I  must  confess  it  is  a 
mystery  to  me  how  men  get  time  to  read  at  all.  If  I  do 
get  time  I'm  generally  done  up,  and  a  novel's  the  only 
thing  I'm  fit  for." 


118  THE  WOODED  HORSE 

"  Ah,  then,  you  don't  know  the  book  craze,"  Bethel  said. 
"  It's  worse  than  drink.  I've  seen  it  absolutely  ruin  a 
man.  You  can't  stop — if  you  see  a  book  you  must  get  it, 
whether  you  really  want  it  or  no.  You  go  on  buying 
and  buying  and  buying.  You  get  far  more  than  you  can 
ever  read.  But  you're  a  miser  and  you  hate  even  lending 
them.  You  sit  in  your  room  and  count  the  covers,  and 
you're  no  fit  company  for  man  or  beast." 

Harry  looked  at  him — "  You've  known  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  I've  known  it.  I'm  a  bit  better  now — I'm 
out  such  a  lot.  But  even  now  there's  a  great  deal  here 
that  I've  never  read,  and  I  add  to  it  continually.  The 
worst  of  it  is,"  he  said,  laughing,  "  that  we  can't  afford  it 
It's  very  hard  on  Mary  and  the  wife,  but  I'm  a  rotten 
loafer,  and  that's  the  end  of  it." 

He  said  it  so  gaily  and  with  so  little  sense  of  responsi- 
bility that  you  couldn't  possibly  think  that  it  weighed  on 
him  and  it  was  abominably  selfish.  But  he  looked  such  8 
boy,  standing  there  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  that 
half-penitent,  half-humorous  look  in  his  eyes,  that  you 
couldn't  be  angry.     Harry  laughed. 

"  Upon  my  word,  you're  amazing !  " 

"  Oh !  you'll  get  sick  of  me.  It's  all  so  selfish  and  slack, 
I  know.  But  I  struggled  once — I'm  in  the  grip  now." 
He  talked  about  Borrow  and  displayed  a  little  grey-bound 
"Walden"  with  pride.  He  spoke  of  Eichard  Jefferies 
with  an  intimate  affection  as  though  he  had  known  the 
man. 

He  gave  Harry  some  of  his  enthusiasm,  and  he  lent  him 
"  Lavengro."  He  described  it  and  Harry  compared  men- 
tally Isobel  Berners  with  Mary  Bethel. 

Then  they  went  up  to  the  little  drawing-room — another 


THE  WOODEI^  HORSE  119 

amazingly  -untidy  room,  but  redeemed  by  a  great  window 
overlooking  the  sea,  and  a  large  photograph  of  Mary  on 
the  mantelpiece.  Under  the  light  of  the  lamp  the  silver 
frame  glittered  and  sparkled. 

He  sat  by  the  window  and  talked  to  her,  and  again  he 
had  that  same  curious  sense  of  having  known  her  before: 
he  spoke  of  it. 

"  I  expect  it's  in  another  existence  then,"  she  said ;  "  as 
I've  never  been  into  Xew  Zealand  and  you've  never  been 
out  of  it — at  least,  since  I've  been  born.  But,  of  course, 
I've  talked  about  you  to  Robin.  We  speculated,  you  know. 
We  hadn't  any  photographs  much  to  help  us,  and  it  was 
quite  a  good  game." 

"  Ah !     Robin !  " 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  him,"  she  said,  turning 
round  to  him.  "  You  won't  think  me  interfering,  will 
you  ?  but  I've  meant  to  speak  ever  since  the  other  day.  I 
was  afraid  that,  perhaps — don't  think  it  dreadfully  rude 
of  me — you  hadn't  quite  understood  Robin.  He's  at  a 
difficult  age,  you  know,  and  there  are  a  lot  of  things  about 
him  that  are  quite  absurd.  And  I  have  been  afraid  that 
you  might  take  those  absurdities  for  the  real  things  and 
fancy  that  that  was  all  that  was  there.  Cambridge — and 
other  things — have  made  him  think  that  a  certain  sort  of 
attitude  is  essential  if  you're  to  get  on.  I  don't  think  he 
even  sincerely  believes  in  it.  But  they  have  taught  him 
that  he  must,  at  least,  seem  to  believe.  The  other  things 
are  there  all  right,  but  he  hides  them — he  is  almost 
ashamed  of  any  one  suspecting  their  existence." 

"  Thank  you !  "  Harry  said  quietly.  "  It  is  very  kind 
of  you  and  I'm  deeply  grateful.  It's  quite  true  that 
Robin  and  I  haven't  seemed  to  hit  it  off  properly.     I  ex- 


120  THE  WOODEK  HOESE 

pect  that  it  is  my  fault.  I  have  tried  to  see  his  point  of 
view  and  have  the  same  interests,  but  every  effort  that  I've 
made  has  seemed  to  make  things  worse.  He  distrusts 
me,  I  think,  and — well — of  course,  that  hurts.  All  the 
things  in  which  I  had  hoped  we  would  share  have  no  inter- 
est for  him." 

"  Don't  you  think,  perhaps,"  she  said,  "  that  you've 
been  a  little  too  anxious — perhaps,  a  little  too  affection- 
ate ?  I  am  speaking  like  this  because  I  care  for  Robin  so 
much.  We  have  been  such  good  friends  for  years  now, 
and  I  think  he  has  let  me  see  a  side  of  him  that  he  has 
hidden  from  most  people.  He  is  curiously  sensitive,  and 
really,  I  think,  very  shy;  and  most  of  all,  he  has  a  per- 
fect horror  of  being  absurd.  That  is  what  I  meant  about 
your  being  affectionate.  He  would  think,  perhaps,  that 
the  rest  were  laughing  at  him.  It's  as  if  you  were  drag- 
ging something  that  was  very  sacred  and  precious  out  into 
the  light  before  all  those  others.  Boys  are  like  that ;  they 
are  terrified  lest  any  one  should  know  what  good  there  is 
in  them — it  isn't  quite  good  form." 

They  were  silent  for  some  time.  Harry  was  throwing 
her  words  like  a  searchlight  on  the  events  of  the  past 
week,  and  they  revealed  much  that  had  been  very  dark  and 
confused.  But  he  was  thinking  of  her.  Their  acquaint- 
ance seemed  to  have  grown  into  intimacy  already. 

"  I  can't  thank  you  enough,"  he  said  again. 

"  It  is  so  nice  of  you,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  not  to  have 
thought  it  presumptuous  of  me.  But  Eobin  is  a  very  good 
friend  of  mine.  Of  course  you  will  find  out  what  a  ster- 
ling fellow  he  is — under  all  that  superficiality.  He  is  one 
of  my  best  friends  here !  " 

He  got  up  to  go.     As  he  held  out  his  hand,  he  said: 


THE  WOODEI^  HOESE  121 

"  I  will  tell  you  frankly,  Miss  Bethel,  that  Pendragon 
hasn't  received  me  with  open  arms.  I  don't  know  why  it 
should — and  twenty  years  in  ]^ew  Zealand  knocks  the 
polish  off.  But  it  has  been  delightful  this  evening — more 
than  you  know." 

"  It  has  been  nice  for  us  too,"  Mary  answered.  "  I 
don't  know  that  Pendragon  is  exactly  thronging  ow^  door 
night  and  day — and  a  new  friend  is  worth  having.  You 
see  I've  claimed  you  as  a  friend  because  you  listened  so 
patiently  to  my  sermon — that's  a  sure  test." 

She  had  spoken  lightly  but  he  had  felt  the  bitterness  in 
her  voice.  Life  was  hard  for  her  too,  then  ?  He  knew 
that  he  was  glad. 

"  I  shall  come  back,"  he  said. 

"  Please,"  she  answered. 

He  said  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Bethel  and  she  pressed  his 
hand  very  warmly.  "  You  are  very  kind  to  take  pity  on 
us,"  she  said,  ogling  him  under  the  gas  in  the  hall ;  "  I 
hope  you  will  come  often." 

Bethel  said  very  little.  He  walked  with  him  to  the  gate 
and  laughed.  "We're  absurd,  aren't  we,  Trojan?"  he 
said.  "  But  don't  neglect  us  altogether.  Even  absurdity 
is  refreshing  sometimes." 

But  Harry  went  up  the  hill  with  a  happier  heart  than 
he  had  had  since  he  entered  Pendragon. 

That  promise  of  adventure  had  been  fulfilled. 


CHAPTER  VI 

RAE'DAL  was  only  at  "  The  Flutes  "  two  days,  but  he 
effected  a  good  deal  in  that  time.  He  did  nothing 
very  active — called  on  Mrs,  le  Terry  and  rode  over  the 
Downs  once  with  Eobin — ^but  he  managed  to  leave  a  flock 
of  very  active  impressions  behind  him.  That,  as  he  knew 
well,  was  his  strong  point.  He  could  not  be  with  you  a 
day  without  vaguely,  almost  indistinctly,  but  nevertheless 
quite  certainly,  influencing  your  opinions.  He  never  said 
anything  very  definite  and,  on  looking  back,  you  could 
never  assert  that  he  had  really  taken  any  one  point  of 
view;  but  he  had  left,  as  it  were,  atmosphere — an  assur- 
ance that  this  was  the  really  right  thing  to  do,  this  the 
proper  attitude  for  correct  breeding  to  adopt.  It  was  al- 
ways, with  him,  a  case  of  correct  breeding,  and  that  was 
why  the  Trojans  liked  him  so  very  much.  "  Eandal,"  as 
Clare  said,  "  knew  so  precisely  who  were  sheep  and  who 
were  goats,  and  he  showed  you  the  difference  so  clearly."  y 
Whenever  he  came  to  stay  some  former  acquaintances 
were  dropped  as  being,  perhaps,  not  quite  the  right  peo- 
ple. He  never  said  that  any  one  was  not  the  right  person, 
that  would  be  bad  breeding,  but  you  realised,  of  your  own 
accord,  that  they  were  not  quite  right.  That  was  why 
the  impression  was  so  strong — it  seemed  to  come  from 
yourself;  your  eyes  were  suddenly  opened  and  you  won- 
dered that  you  hadn't  seen  it  before. 

122 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  123 

He  said  very  little  of  Trojan  people  this  time;  the  main 
result  of  his  visit  was  its  effect  on  Harry's  position. 

Had  you  been  a  stranger  you  would  have  noticed  noth- 
ing ;  the  motto  of  the  gentleman  of  good  breeding  is,  "  The 
end  and  aim  of  all  true  opinions  is  the  concealing  of  them 
from  the  wrong  person." 

Eandal  was  exceedingly  polite  to  Harry,  so  polite  that 
Kobin  and  Clare  knew  immediately  that  he  disapproved, 
but  Harry  was  pleased.  Randal  spoke  warmly  to  Eobin. 
"  You  are  lucky  to  have  such  a  father,  Bob ;  it's  what  we 
all  want,  you  and  I  especially,  a  little  fresh  air  let  into 
our  Cambridge  dust  and  confusion ;  it's  most  refreshing  to 
find  some  one  who  cares  nothing  about  all  those  things 
that  have  seemed  to  us,  quite  erroneously  probably,  so 
valuable.     You  should  copy  him,  Robin." 

But  Robin  made  no  reply.  He  understood  perfectly. 
There  had  been  some  qualities  in  his  father  that  he  had, 
deep  down  in  his  nature,  admired.  He  had  seemed  to  be 
without  doubt  a  man  on  whom  one  could  rely  in  a  tight 
corner,  and  in  spite  of  himself  he  had  liked  his  father's 
frankness.  It  was  unusual.  There  was  always  another 
meaning  in  everything  that  Robin's  friends  said,  but  there 
was  never  any  doubt  about  Harry.  He  missed  the  fine 
shades,  of  course,  and  was  lamentably  lacking  in  discrim- 
ination, but  you  did  know  where  you  were.  Robin  had, 
almost  reluctantly,  admired  this  before  the  coming  of 
Randal.  But  now  there  could  be  no  question.  When 
Randal  was  there  you  had  displayed  before  you  the  com- 
plete art  of  successful  allusion.  Nothing  was  ever  di- 
rectly stated,  but  everything  was  hinted,  and  you  were 
compelled  to  believe  that  this  really  was  the  perfection  of 
good  breeding.     Robin  admired  Randal  exceedingly.     He 


124  THE  WOODEK  HORSE 

took  his  dicta  very  seriously  and  accepted  his  criticism. 
The  judgment  of  his  father  completed  the  impression  that 
he  had  begun  to  receive.     He  was  impossible. 

Eandal  was  going  by  the  10.45,  and  he  would  walk  to 
the  station. 

"A  whiff  of  fresh  air,  Eobin,  is  absolutely  essential. 
You  must  walk  down  with  me.  I  hate  to  go,  Miss  Tro- 
Jan." 

"  Very  soon  to  return,  I  hope,  Mr.  Eandal,"  answered 
Clare.  She  liked  him,  and  thought  him  an  excellent  in- 
fluence for  Eobin. 

"  Thank  you — it's  very  kind — but  one's  busy,  you 
know.  It's  been  hard  enough  to  snatch  these  few  days. 
Besides,  Eobin  isn't  alone  in  the  same  way  now.  He  has 
his  father." 

Clare  made  no  reply,  but  her  silence  was  eloquent. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  him.  Miss  Trojan,"  he  said.  "  He  is, 
I'm  afraid,  a  little  out  of  it.  Twenty  years,  you  know,  is 
a  long  time." 

Clare  smiled.  "  He  is  unchanged,"  she  said.  "  What 
he  was  as  a  boy,  he  is  now." 

"  He  is  fortunate,"  Eandal  said  gravely.     "  Eor  most 
of  us  experience  has  a  jostling  series  of  shocks  ready.  | 
Life  hurts." 

He  said  good-bye  with  that  air  of  courtly  melancholy 
that  Clare  admired  so  much.  He  shook  Harry  warmly 
by  the  hand  and  expressed  a  hope  of  another  meeting. 

"  I  should  be  delighted,"  Harry  said.  "  What  sort  of 
time  am  I  likely  to  catch  you  in  town  ? " 

But  Eandal,  alarmed  at  this  serious  acceptance  of  an 
entirely  ironical  proposal,  was  immediately  vague  and  gave 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  125 

no  definite  promise.  Harry  watched  them  pass  down  the 
drive,  then  he  turned  back  slowly  into  the  house. 

It  was  one  of  those  blue  and  gold  days  that  are  only  to 
be  realised  perfectly  in  Cornwall — blue  of  the  sky  and  the 
sea,  gold  on  the  roofs  and  the  rich  background  of  red  and 
brown  in  the  autumn-tinted  trees,  whilst  the  deep  green 
of  the  lawns  in  front  of  the  house  seemed  to  hold  both 
blues  and  golds  in  its  lights  and  shadows.  The  air  was 
perfectly  still  and  the  smoke  from  a  distant  bonfire  hung 
in  strange  wreaths  of  grey-blue  in  the  light  against  the 
trees,  as  though  carved  delicately  in  marble. 

Eandal  discussed  his  prospects.  He  spoke,  as  he  in- 
variably did  with  regard  to  his  past  and  future,  airily  and 
yet  impressively :  "  I  don't  like  to  make  myself  too 
cheap,"  he  said.  "  There  are  things  any  sort  of  fellow 
can  do,  and  I  must  say  that  I  shrink  from  taking  bread 
out  of  the  mouths  of  some  of  them.  But  of  course  there 
are  things  that  one  must  do — where  special  knowledge  is 
wanted — not  that  I'm  any  good,  you  know,  but  I've  had 
chances.  Besides,  one  must  work  slowly.  Style's  the 
thing — Flaubert  and  Pater  for  ever — the  doctrine  of  the 
one  word." 

Kobin  looked  at  him  with  admiration. 

"  By  Jove,  Eandal,  I  wish  I  could  write ;  I  sometimes 
feel  quite — well,  it  sounds  silly — but  inspired,  you  know 
— as  if  one  saw  things  quite  differently.  It  was  very  like 
that  in  Germany  once  or  twice." 

"  Ah,  we're  all  like  that  at  times,"  Randal  spoke  en- 
couragingly. "  But  don't  you  trust  it — an  ignis  fatuus  if 
ever  there  was  one.  That  is  why  we  have  bank  clerks  at 
Peckham  and  governesses  in  Bloomsbury  writing  their 


126  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

reminiscences.     It's  those  moments  of  inspiration  tliat  are 
responsible  for  all  our  overcrowded  literature." 

They  had  chosen  the  path  over  the  fields  to  the  station, 
and  suddenly  at  the  bend  of  the  hill  the  sea  sprang  before 
them,  a  curving  mirror  that  reflected  the  blue  of  the  sky 
and  was  clouded  mistily  with  the  gold  of  the  sun.  That 
sudden  springing  forward  of  the  sea  was  always  very 
wonderful,  even  when  it  had  been  seen  again  and  again, 
and  Eobin  stopped  and  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"  It's  fine,  isn't  it,  Eandal  ?  "  he  said.  "  One  gets  fond 
of  the  place." 

He  was  a  little  ashamed  to  have  betrayed  such  feeling 
and  spoke  apologetically.  He  went  on  hurriedly. 
"  There  was  an  old  chap  in  Germany — at  Worms — who 
was  most  awfully  interesting.  He  kept  a  little  bookshop, 
and  I  used  to  go  down  and  talk  to  him,  and  he  said  once^ 
that  the  sea  was  the  most  beautiful  dream  that  the  world 
contained,  but  you  must  never  get  too  near  or  the  dream, 
broke,  and  from  that  moment  you  had  no  peace."  ' 

Eandal  looked  at  Eobin  anxiously.  "  I  say,  old  chap, 
this  place  is  getting  on  your  nerves ;  always  being  here  is 
bad  for  you.  Why  don't  you  come  up  to  town  or  go 
abroad  ?     You're  seedy." 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  Eobin  said,  rather  irritably. 
"  Only  one  wonders  sometimes  if — "  he  broke  off  suddenly. 
"  I'm  a  bit  worried  about  something,"  he  said. 

He  was  immediately  aware  that  he  had  said  nothing  to 
Eandal  about  the  Feverel  affair  and  he  wondered  why. 
Eandal  would  have  been  the  natural  person  to  talk  to 
about  it;  his  advice  would  have  been  worth  having.  But 
Eobin  felt  vaguely  that  it  would  be  better  not.  For  some 
strange  reason,  as  yet  unanalysed,  he  scarcely  trusted  him 


1 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  12T 

as  he  had  done  in  the  old  days.  He  was  still  wondering 
why,  when  they  arrived  at  the  station. 

They  said  good-bye  affectionately — rather  more  affec- 
tionately than  usual.  There  was  a  little  sense  of  strain, 
and  Eobin  felt  rather  relieved  when  the  train  had  gone. 
As  he  hurried  from  the  platform  he  puzzled  over  it.  He 
could  hold  no  clue,  but  he  knew  that  their  friendship  had 
changed  a  little.     He  was  sorry. 

As  he  turned  down  the  station  road  he  decided  that  life 
was  becoming  very  complicated.  There  was  first  his 
father ;  that  oughtn't  in  the  nature  of  things  to  have  com- 
plicated matters  at  all — but  it  was  complicated,  because 
there  was  no  knowing  what  a  man  like  that  would  do.  He 
might  let  the  family  down  so  badly;  it  was  almost  like 
having  gunpowder  in  your  cellar.  Randal  had  thought 
him  absurd.  Robin  saw  that  clearly,  and  Randal's 
opinion  was  that  of  all  truly  sensible  people.  But,  after 
all,  the  real  complication  was  the  Feverel  affair.  It  was 
now  nearly  ten  days  since  that  terrible  evening  and  noth- 
ing had  happened.  Robin  wasn't  sure  what  could  have 
happened,  but  he  had  expected  something.  He  had 
waited  for  a  note ;  she  would  most  assuredly  write  and  her 
letter  would  serve  as  a  hint,  he  would  know  how  to  act; 
but  there  had  been  no  sign.  On  the  day  following  the  in- 
terview he  had  felt,  for  the  most  part,  relief.  He  was 
suddenly  aware  of  the  burden  that  the  affair  had  been,  he 
was  a  free  man;  but  with  this  there  had  been  compunc- 
tion. He  had  acted  like  a  brute;  he  was  surprised  that 
he  could  have  been  so  hard,  and  he  was  a  little  ashamed  of 
meeting  the  public  gaze.  If  people  only  realised,  he 
thought,  what  a  cad  he  was,  they  would  assuredly  have 
nothing  to  do  with  him.     As  the  days  passed,  this  feeling 


128  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

increased  and  he  was  extremely  uncomfortable.  He  had 
never  before  doubted  that  he  was  a  very  decent  fellow — 
nothing,  perhaps,  exceptional  in  any  way,  but,  judged  by 
every  standard,  he  passed  muster.  ISTow  he  wasn't  so ' 
sure,  he  had  done  something  that  he  would  have  entirely 
condemned  in  another  man,  and  this  showed  him  plainly 
and  most  painfully  the  importance  that  he  placed  on  the 
other  man's  opinion.  He  was  beginning  to  grow  his  crop  : 
of  ideas  and  he  was  already  afraid  of  the  probable  harvest./ 
That  his  affection  for  Dahlia  was  dead  there  could  be 
no  question,  but  that  it  was  buried,  either  for  himself  or 
the  public,  was,  most  unfortunately,  not  the  case.  He 
was  afraid  of  discovery  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and 
it  was  unpleasant.  Dahlia  herself  would  be  quiet ;  at 
least,  he  was  almost  sure,  although  her  outbreak  the 
other  evening  had  surprised  him.  But  he  was  afraid  of 
Mrs.  Feverel.  He  felt  now  that  she  had  never  liked  him ; 
he  saw  her  as  some  grim  dragon  waiting  for  his  inevitable 
surrender.  He  did  not  know  what  she  would  do ;  he  v\^as 
beginning  to  realise  his  inexperience,  but  he  knew  that 
she  would  never  allow  the  affair  to  pass  quietly  away.  To 
do  him  justice,  it  was  not  so  much  the  fear  of  personal 
exposure  that  frightened  him;  that,  of  course,  would  be 
unpleasant — ^he  would  have  to  face  the  derision  of  his 
enemies  and  the  contempt  of  those  people  whom  formerly 
he  had  himself  despised.  But  it  was  not  personal  con- 
tempt, it  was  the  disgrace  to  the  family;  the  house  was 
suddenly  threatened  on  two  sides — his  father,  the  Fev- 
erels — and  he  was  frightened.  He  saw  his  name  in  the 
papers;  the  Trojan  name  dragged  through  the  mud  be- 
cause of  his  own  folly — Oh!  it  must  be  stopped  at  all 
costs.     But  the  uncertainty  of  it  was  worrying  him.     Ten 


THE  WOODEIN'  HOESE  129 

days  had  passed  and  nothing  was  done.  Ten  days,  and 
he  had  been  able  to  speak  of  it  to  no  one ;  it  had  haunted 
him  all  day  and  had  spoiled  his  sleep ;  first,  because 
he  had  done  something  of  which  he  was  ashamed,  and 
secondly,  because  he  was  afraid  that  people  might 
know. 

There  were  the  letters.  He  remembered  some  of  the 
sentences  now  and  bit  his  lip.  How  could  he  have  been 
such  a  fool?  She  must  give  them  back — of  course  she 
would;  but  there  was  Mrs.  Feverel. 

The  uncertainty  was  torturing  him — he  must  find  out 
how  matters  were  going,  and  suddenly,  on  the  inspiration 
of  the  moment,  he  decided  to  go  and  see  Dahlia  at  once. 
Things  could  not  be  worse 'than  they  were,  and  at  least 
the  uncertainty  would  be  ended.  The  golden  day  irri- 
tated him,  and  he  found  the  dark  gloom  of  the  Feverels' 
street  a  relief.  A  man  was  playing  an  organ  at  the  corner, 
and  three  dirty,  tattered  children  were  dancing  noisily  in 
the  middle  of  the  road.  He  watched  them  for  a  moment 
before  ringing  the  bell,  and  wondered  how  they  could 
seem  so  unconcerned,  and  he  thought  them  abandoned. 

He  found  Dahlia  alone  in  the  gaudy  drawing-room. 
She  gave  a  little  cry  when  she  saw  who  it  was,  and  her 
cheeks  flushed  red,  and  then  the  colour  faded.  He  no- 
ticed that  she  was  looking  ill  and  rather  untidy.  There 
were  dark  lines  under  her  eyes  and  her  mouth  was  drawn. 
There  was  an  awkward  pause;  he  had  sat  down  with  his 
hat  in  his  hand  and  he  was  painfully  ill  at  ease. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come  back,  Robin,"  she  began  at 
last.  "  Only  you  have  been  a  long  time — ten  days.  I 
have  never  gone  out,  because  I  was  afraid  that  I  would 
miss  you.     But  I  knew  that  you  would  be  sorry  after  the 


130  THE  WOODEJT  HORSE 

other  night,  because  you  know,  dear,  you  hurt  me  ter- 
ribly, and  for  a  time  I  really  thought  you  meant  it." 

"  But  I  do  mean  it,"  Eobin  broke  in.  "  I  did  and  I 
do.  I'm  sorry,  Dahlia,  for  having  hurt  you,  but  I  thought 
that  you  would  see  it  as  I  do — that  it  must,  I  mean,  stop. 
I  had  hoped  that  you  would  understand." 

But  she  came  over  and  stood  by  him,  smiling  rather 
timidly.  "  I  don't  want  to  start  it  all  over  again,"  she 
said.  "  It  was  silly  of  me  to  have  made  such  a  fuss  the 
other  night.  I  have  been  thinking  all  these  ten  days,  and 
it  has  been  my  fault  all  along.  I  have  bothered  you  by 
coming  here  and  interfering  when  I  wasn't  really  wanted. 
Mother  and  I  will  go  away  again  and  then  you  shall  come 
and  stay,  and  we  shall  be  all  alone — like  we  were  at  Cam- 
bridge. I  have  learnt  a  good  deal  during  these  last  few 
days,  and  if  you  will  only  be  patient  with  me  I  will  try 
very  hard  to  improve." 

She  stood  by  his  chair  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
He  would  have  thrilled  at  her  touch  six  months  before — 
now  he  was  merely  impatient.  It  was  so  annoying  that 
the  affair  should  have  to  be  reopened  when  they  had  de- 
cided it  finally  the  other  night.  He  felt  again  the  blind, 
unreasoning  fear  of  exposure.  He  had  never  before 
doubted  his  bravery,  but  there  had  never  been  any  ques- 
tion of  attack — the  House  had  been,  it  seemed,  founded  on 
a  rock,  he  had  never  doubted  its  stability  before.  ISTow, 
with  all  the  cruelty  of  a  man  who  was  afraid  for  the  first 
time,  he  had  no  mercy. 

"  It  is  over.  Dahlia — there  is  no  other  possibility.  "We 
had  both  made  a  mistake;  I  am  sorry  and  regret  ex- 
tremely if  I  had  led  you  to  think  that  it  could  ever  have 
been  otherwise.     I  see  it  more  clearly  than  I  saw  it  ten 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  131 

days  ago — quite  plainly  now — and  there's  no  purpose 
served  in  keeping  the  matter  open ;  here's  an  end.  We  will 
Loth  forget.  Heroics  are  no  good ;  after  all,  we  are  man 
and  woman — it's  better  to  leave  it  at  that  and  accept  the 
future  quietly." 

He  spoke  coldly  and  calmly,  indeed  he  was  surprised 
that  he  could  face  it  like  that,  but  his  one  thought  was 
for  peace,  to  put  this  spectre  that  had  haunted  him  these 
ten  days  behind  him  and  watch  the  world  again  with  a 
straight  gaze — he  must  have  no  secrets. 

She  had  moved  away  and  stood  by  the  fireplace,  looking 
straight  before  her.  She  was  holding  herself  together 
with  a  terrible  effort;  she  must  quiet  her  brain  and  beat 
back  her  thoughts.  If  she  thought  for  a  moment  she 
would  break  down,  and  during  these  ten  days  she  had 
been  schooling  herself  to  face  whatever  might  come — 
shame,  exposure,  anything — she  would  not  cry  and  beg 
for  pity  as  she  had  done  before.  But  it  was  the  end,  the 
end,  the  end !  The  end  of  so  much  that  had  given  her  a 
new  soul  during  the  last  few  months.  She  must  go  back 
to  those  dreary  years  that  had  had  no  meaning  in  them, 
all  those  purposeless  grey  days  that  had  stretched  in  end- 
less succession  on  to  a  dismal  future  in  which  there  shone 
no  sun.  Oh!  he  couldn't  know  what  it  had  all  meant  to 
her — it  could  be  flung  aside  by  him  without  regret.  For 
^-•him  it  was  a  foolish  memory,  for  her  it  was  death. 

The  tears  were  coming,  her  lips  were  quivering,  but 
she  clenched  her  hands  until  the  nails  dug  into  the  flesh. 
The  barrel-organ  was  beneath  the  window — it  was  driving 
relentlessly  through  "  Toreador,"  and  the  sun  poured  in 
a  great  flood  of  colour  through  the  window,  and  mean- 
while her  heart  was  broken.     She  had  read  of  it  often 


132  THE  WOODEN"  HORSE 

enough  and  liad  laughed — she  had  not  known  that  it  meant 
that  terrible  dull  throbbing  pain  and  no  joy  or  hope  or 
light  anywhere.     But  she  spoke  to  him  quietly. 

"  I  had  thought  that  you  were  braver,  Eobin.  That 
you  had  cared  enough  not  to  mind  what  they  said.  You 
are  right :  it  has  all  been  a  mistake." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  doggedly,  without  looking  at  her. 
"We've  been  foolish.  I  hadn't  thought  enough  about 
others.  You  see  after  all  one  owes  something  to  one's 
people.  It  would  never  do,  Dahlia,  it  wouldn't  really. 
You'd  never  like  it  either — ^you  see  we're  different.  At 
Cambridge  one  couldn't  see  it  so  clearly,  but  here — well, 
there  are  things  one  owes  to  one's  people,  tradition,  and, 
oh !  lots  of  things !  You  have  got  your  customs,  we  have 
ours — it  doesn't  do  to  mix." 

He  hadn't  meant  to  put  it  so  clearly.  He  scarcely  real- 
ised what  he  had  said  because  he  was  not  thinking  of  her 
at  all ;  it  was  only  that  one  thing  that  he  saw  in  front  of 
him,  how  to  get  out,  away,  clear  of  the  whole  entanglement, 
where  there  was  no  question  of  suspicion  and  possible 
revelation  of  secrets.     He  was  not  thinking  of  her. 

But  the  cruelty  of  it,  the  naked,  unhesitating  truth  of 
it,  stung  her  as  nothing  had  ever  hurt  her  before — it  was 
as  though  he  had  struck  her  in  the  face.  She  was  not 
good  enough,  she  was  not  fit.  He  had  said  it  before,  but 
then  he  had  been  angry.  She  had  not  believed  it ;  but  now 
he  was  speaking  calmly,  coldly — she  was  not  good  enough ! 

And  in  a  moment  her  idol  had  tumbled  to  the  ground — 
her  god  was  lying  pitifully  in  the  dust,  and  all  the  Creed 
that  she  had  learnt  so  patiently  and  faithfully  had  crum- 
bled into  nothing.  Her  despair  seemed,  for  the  moment, 
to  have  gone;  she  only  felt  burning  contempt — contempt 


THE  WOODEK  HOKSE  133 

for  him,  tliat  he  could  seem  so  small — contempt  for  hei^ 
self,  that  she  could  have  worshipped  at  such  altars. 

She  turned  round  and  looked  at  him. 

"  That  is  rather  unfair.  You  say  that  I  am  not  your 
equal  socially.  Well,  we  will  leave  it  at  that — ^you  are 
quite  right — it  is  over." 

He  lowered  his  eyes  before  her  steady  gaze.  At  last  he 
was  ashamed;  he  had  not  meant  to  put  it  brutally.  He 
had  behaved  like  a  cad  and  he  knew  it.  Her  white  face, 
her  hands  clenched  tightly  at  her  side,  the  brave  lift  of  her 
head  as  she  faced  him,  moved  him  as  her  tears  and  emo- 
tions had  never  done. 

He  sprang  up  and  stood  by  her. 

"  Dahlia,  I've  been  a  brute,  a  cad — I  didn't  know  what 

I  had  said 1  didn't  mean  it  like  that,  as  you  thought. 

Only  I've  been  so  worried,  I've  not  known  where  to  turn 
and — oh,  don't  you  see,  I'm  so  young.  I  get  driven,  I 
can't  stand  up  against  them  all." 

Why,  he  was  nearly  crying.  The  position  was  sud- 
denly reversed,  and  she  could  almost  have  laughed  at  the 
change.  He  was  looking  at  her  piteously,  like  a  boy  con- 
victed of  orchard-robbing — and  she  had  loved  him,  wor- 
shipped him !  Five  minutes  ago  his  helplessness  would 
have  stirred  her,  she  would  have  wanted  to  take  him  and 
protect  him  and  comfort  him ;  but  now  all  that  was  past — 
she  felt  only  contempt  and  outraged  pride :  her  eyes  were 
hard  and  her  hands  unclenched. 

"  It  is  no  good,  Robin.  You  were  quite  right.  There 
is  an  end  of  everything.  It  was  a  mistake  for  both  of  us, 
and  perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  we  should  know  it  now.  It 
will  spare  us  later." 

So  that  was  the  end.     He  felt  little  triumph  or  satia- 


134  THE  WOODEN"  HORSE  ^      • 

faction;  he  was  only  asliamed,  like  a  small  boy  caught  in 
some  petty  crime. 

He  turned  to  go  without  a  word.  Then  he  remembered 
— "  There  are  the  letters  ? " 

"  Ah !  you  must  let  me  keep  them — for  a  memory." 
She  was  not  looking  at  him,  but  out  of  the  window  on  to 
the  street.  A  cab  was  slowly  crawling  in  the  distance — 
she  could  see  the  end  of  the  driver's  whip  as  he  flicked  at 
his  horses. 

"  You  can't — you  don't  mean —  ?  "  Eobin  turned  back 
to  her. 

"  I  mean  nothing — only  I  am — tired.  You  had  better 
go.     We  will  write  if  there  is  anything  more." 

"  Look  here !  "  Eobin  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
"  You  must  let  me  have  them  back.  It's  serious — more 
than  you  know.  People  might  see  them  and — my  God! 
you  would  ruin  me !  " 

He  was  sj)eaking  melodramatically,  and  he  looked  melo- 
dramatic and  very  ridiculous.  He  was  crushing  his 
bowler  in  his  hands. 

"  1^0.  I  will  keep  them !  "  She  spoke  slowly  and 
quite  calmly,  as  though  she  had  thought  it  all  out  before. 
"  They  are  valuable.  Now  you  must  go.  This  has  been 
scene  enough — Good-bye." 

She  turned  to  the  window  and  he  was  dismissed.  His 
pride  came  to  the  rescue ;  he  would  not  let  her  see  that  he 
cared,  so  he  went — without  another  word. 

She  stood  in  the  same  position,  and  watched  him  go 
down  the  street.  He  was  walking  quickly  and  at  the  same 
time  a  little  furtively,  as  though  he  was  afraid  of  meeting 
acquaintances.  She  turned  away  from  the  window,  and 
then,  suddenly,  knelt  on  the  floor  with  her  head  in  her 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  135 

hands.  She  sobbed  miserably,  hopelessly,  with  her  hands 
pressed  against  her  face. 

And  Mrs.  Feverel  found  her  kneeling  there  in  the  sun- 
light an  hour  later. 

"  Dahlia,"  she  said  softly,  "  Dahlia !  " 

The  girl  looked  up.  "  He  has  gone,  mother,"  she  said. 
"  And  he  is  never  coming  back.     I  sent  him  away." 

And  Mrs.  Feverel  said  nothing. 


CHAPTER  yn 

rriHEEE  were  times  when  Harry  felt  curiously,  im- 
^  pressively,  the  age  of  the  house.  It  was  not  all  of  it 
old,  it  had  been  added  to  from  time  to  time  by  successive 
Trojans;  but  there  had,  from  the  earliest  days,  been  a 
stronghold  on  the  hill  overlooking  the  sea  and  keeping 
guard. 

He  had  had  a  wonderful  pride  in  it  on  his  return,  but 
now  he  began  to  feel  as  though  he  had  no  right  in  it. 
Surely  if  any  one  had  a  right  to  such  a  heritage  it  was 
he,  but  they  had  isolated  him  and  told  him  that  he  had 
no  place  there.  The  gardens,  the  corners  and  battlements 
of  the  house,  the  great  cliff  falling  sheer  to  the  sea,  had 
had  no  welcome  for  him,  and  when  he  had  claimed  his 
succession  they  had  refused  him.  He  was  beginning  to 
give  the  stocks  and  stones  of  the  House  a  personal  exist- 
ence. Sometimes  at  night,  when  the  moon  gave  the  place 
grey  shadows  and  white  lights,  or  in  the  early  morning 
when  the  first  birds  were  crying  in  the  trees  and  the  sea 
was  slowly  taking  colour  from  the  rising  sun,  in  the  per- 
fect stillness  and  beauty  of  those  hours  the  house  had 
seemed  to  speak  to  him  with  a  new  voice.  He  imagined, 
fantastically  at  times,  that  the  white  statues  in  the  garden 
watched  him  with  grave  eyes,  wondering  what  place  he 
would  take  in  the  chronicles  of  the  House. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon,   and  he  was   alone  in  the 

136 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  137 

library.  That  was  a  room  that  had  always  appealed  to 
him,  with  its  dark  red  walls  covered  from  floor  to  ceiling 
with  books,  its  wide  stone  fireplace,  its  soft,  heavy  car- 
pets, its  wonderfully  comfortable  arm-chairs.  It  seemed 
to  him  the  very  perfection  of  that  spirit  of  orderly  com- 
fort and  luxurious  simplicity  for  which  he  had  so  earnestly 
longed  in  New  Zealand.  He  sat  in  that  room  for  hours, 
alone,  thinking,  wondering,  puzzling,  devising  new  plana 
for  Eobin's  surrender  and  rejecting  them  as  soon  as  they 
were  formed. 

He  was  sitting  by  the  fire  now,  hearing  the  coals  click 
ns  they  fell  into  the  golden  furnace  that  awaited  them. 
He  was  comparing  the  incidents  of  the  morning  with 
those  of  the  preceding  Sunday,  and  he  knew  that  things 
were  approaching  a  crisis.  Clare  had  scarcely  spoken  to 
him  for  three  days.  Garrett  and  Eobin  had  not  said  a 
word  beyond  a  casual  good-morning.  They  were  ignor- 
ing him,  continuing  their  daily  life  as  though  he  did  not 
exist  at  all.  He  remembered  that  he  had  felt  his  wel- 
come a  fortnight  before  a  little  cold — it  seemed  raptur- 
ous compared  with  the  present  state  of  things. 

They  had  driven  to  church  that  morning  in  state.  No 
one  had  exchanged  a  word  during  the  whole  drive. 
Clare  had  sat  quietly,  in  solemn  magnificence,  without 
moving  an  eyelid.  They  had  moved  from  the  carriage  to 
the  church  in  majestic  procession,  watched  by  an  admir- 
ing cluster  of  townspeople.  He  had  admired  Clare's 
majestic  bearing  and  Eobin's  carriage;  there  was  no  doubt 
that  they  supported  family  traditions  worthily,  but  he 
felt  that,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  he  scarcely  counted  at 
all.  It  was  a  cold  and  over-decorated  church,  with  an  air 
of  wealth  and  lack  of  all  warm  emotions  that  was  exactly 


13S  THE  WOODEK  HOESE 

characteristic  of  its  congregation.  Harry  thouglit  that 
he  had  never  seen  a  gathering  of  more  "unresponsive  peo- 
ple. An  excellent  choir  sang  Stainer  in  B  flat  with  per- 
fect precision  and  fitting  respect,  and  the  hymns  and 
psalms  were  murmured  with  proper  decorum.  The 
clergyman  who  had  come  to  tea  on  the  day  after  Harry's 
arrival  preached  a  carefully  calculated  and  excellently 
worded  sermon.  Although  his  text  was  the  publican's 
"  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner,"  it  was  evident  that 
his  address  was  tinged  with  the  Pharisee's  self-con- 
gratulations. 

A  little  gathering  was  formed  in  the  porch  after  the 
service,  and  Mrs.  le  Terry,  magnificent  in  green  silk  and 
an  enormous  hat,  was  the  only  person  who  took  any  in- 
terest in  Harry,  and  she  was  looking  over  his  head  during 
the  conversation  in  order,  apparently,  to  fix;  the  attention 
of  some  gentleman  moving  in  the  opposite  direction. 

At  lunch  Harry  had  made  a  determined  effort  towards 
cheerfulness.  He  had  learnt  that  heartiness  was  bad 
manners  and  effusion  a  crime,  so  he  was  quiet  and  re- 
strained. But  his  efforts  failed  miserably ;  Eobin  seemed 
worried  and  his  thoughts  were  evidently  far  away,  Clare 
was  occupied  with  the  impertinence  of  some  stranger  who 
had  thrust  himself  into  the  Trojan  pew  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, and  Garrett  was  repeating  complacently  a  story 
that  he  had  heard  at  the  Club  tending  to  prove  the  un- 
sanitary condition  of  the  lower  classes  in  general  and  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Cove  in  particular.  After  lunch  they 
had  left  him  alone;  he  had  not  dared  to  petition  Eobin 
for  a  walk,  so,  sick  at  heart  and  miserably  lonely,  he  had 
wandered  disconsolately  into  the  library.  He  had  taken 
from  one  of  the  shelves  the  volume  T — U  of  "  The  Die- 


THE  WOODEj^  HOESE  139 

tionary  of  National  Biography,"  and  had  amnsed  himself 
hy  searching  for  the  names  of  heroes  in  Trojan  annals. 

There  was  only  one  who  really  mattered — a  certain 
Humphrey  Trojan,  1718-1771 ;  a  man  apparently  of 
poor  circumstances  and  quite  a  distant  cousin  of  the  main 
branch,  one  who  had  been  in  all  probability  despised  by 
Sir  Henry  Trojan  of  that  time.  Nevertheless  he  had 
been  a  person  of  some  accomit  in  history  and  had,  from 
the  towers  of  the  House,  watched  the  sea  and  the  stars  to 
some  purpose.  He  had  been  admitted,  Harry  imagined, 
into  the  sacred  precincts  after  his  researches  had  made 
him  a  person  of  national  importance,  and  it  was  amusing 
to  picture  Sir  Henry's  pride  transformed  into  a  rather 
obsequious  familiarity  when  "  My  cousin,  Humphrey,  had 
been  honoured  by  an  interview  with  his  Majesty  and  had 
received  an  Order  at  the  royal  hand  " — amusing,  yes,  but 
not  greatly  to  the  glory  of  Sir  Henry.  Harry  liked  to 
picture  Humphrey  in  his  days  of  difficulty — sturdy,  per- 
severing, confident  in  his  own  ability,  oblivious  of  the 
cuts  dealt  him  by  his  cousin.     Time  would  show. 

He  let  the  book  fall  and  gazed  at  the  fire,  thinking. 
After  all,  he  was  a  poor  creature.  He  had  none  of  that 
perseverance  and  belief  in  his  own  ultimate  success,  and 
it  was  better,  perhaps,  to  get  right  out  of  it,  to  throw  up 
the  sponge,  to  turn  tail,  and  again  there  floated  before  him 
that  wonderful  dream  of  liberty  and  the  road — of  a  rela- 
tionship with  the  world  at  large,  and  no  constraint  of 
family  dignity  and  absurd  grades  of  respectability.  Off 
with  the  harness ;  he  had  worn  it  for  a  fortnight  and  he 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  Bethel  was  right;  he  would  fol- 
low the  same  path  and  find  his  soul  by  losing  it  in  the\ 
eyes  of  the  world.     But,  after  all,  there  was  Eobin.     He  > 


140  THE  WOODE]^  HORSE 

had  not  given  it  a  fair  trial,  and  it  was  only  cowardice 
that  had  spoken  to  him. 

The  clock  struck  half-past  three  and  he  went  upstairs 
to  see  his  father.  The  old  man  seldom  left  his  bed  now. 
He  grew  weaker  every  day  and  the  end  could  not  be  far 
away.  He  had  no  longer  any  desire  to  live,  and  awaited 
with  serene  confidence  the  instant  of  departure,  being 
firmly  convinced  that  Death  was  too  good  a  gentleman  to 
treat  a  Trojan  scurvily,  and  that,  whatever  the  next  world 
might  contain,  he  would  at  least  be  assured  of  the  respect 
and  deference  that  the  present  world  had  shown  him. 
His  mind  dwelt  continually  on  his  early  days,  and,  even 
when  there  was  no  one  present  to  listen,  he  repeated  anec- 
dotes and  reminiscences  for  the  benefit  of  the  world  at 
large.  His  face  seemed  to  have  dwindled  considerably, 
but  his  eyes  were  always  alive — twinkling  over  the  bed- 
clothes like  lights  in  a  dark  room.  His  mouth  never 
moved,  only  his  hand,  claw-like  and  yellow  as  parchment, 
clutched  the  bedclothes  and  sometimes  waved  feebly  in  the 
air  to  emphasise  his  meaning.  He  had  grown  strangely 
intolerant  of  Clare,  and  although  he  submitted  to  her 
ofiices  as  usual,  did  so  reluctantly  and  with  no  good  grace ; 
she  had  served  him  faithfully  and  diligently  for  twenty 
years  and  this  was  her  reward.  She  said  nothing,  but  it 
was  another  result  of  Harry's  coming. 

Sir  Jeremy's  eyes  twinkled  when  he  saw  his  son. 
"  Hey,  Harry,  my  boy — all  of  'em  out,  aren't  they  ?  Dev- 
ilish good  thing — no  one  to  worry  us.  Just  give  the  pil- 
lows a  punch  and  pull  that  table  nearer — that's  right. 
Just  pull  that  blind  up — I  can't  see  the  sea." 

The  room  had  changed  its  character  within  the  last 
week.     It  was  a  place  of  silences  and  noiseless  tread,  and 


THE  WOODEI^  HOESE  141 

tlie  scent  of  flowers  mingled  with  the  intangible  odour  of 
medicine.  A  great  fire  burnt  in  the  open  fireplace,  and 
heavy  curtains  had  been  hung  over  the  door  to  prevent 
draughts. 

Harry  moved  silently  about  the  room,  flung  up  the 
blind  to  let  in  the  sun,  propped  up  the  pillows,  and  then 
sat  down  by  the  bed. 

"  You're  looking  better,  father,"  he  said ;  "  you'll  soon 
be  up  again." 

"  The  devil  I  will,"  said  Sir  Jeremy.  "  l^o,  it's  not 
for  me.  I'm  here  for  a  month  or  two,  and  then  I'm  ofl^. 
I've  had  my  day,  and  a  damned  good  one  too.  What  do 
you  think  o'  that  girl  now,  Harry — she's  fine — what  ?  " 

He  produced  from  under  the  pillow  a  photograph,  yel- 
low with  age,  of  a  dancer — jet-black  hair  and  black  eyes, 
her  body  balanced  on  one  leg,  her  hands  on  her  hips. 
"Anonita  Sendella — a  devilish  fine  woman,  by  gad — 
sixty  years  ago  that  was — and  Tom  Buckley  and  I  were 
in  the  running.  He  had  the  money  and  I  had  the  looks, 
although  you  wouldn't  think  it  now.  She  liked  me  until 
she  got  tired  of  me  and  she  died  o'  drink — not  many  like 
that  nowadays."  He  gazed  at  the  photograph  whilst  his 
eyes  twinkled.  "  Legs — by  Heaven !  what  legs !  "  He 
chuckled.  "  Wouldn't  do  for  Clare  to  see  that ;  she 
was  shaking  my  pillows  this  mornin'  and  I  was  in  a 
deuce  of  a  fright — thought  the  thing  would  tumble  out." 

He  lay  back  on  his  pillows  thinking,  and  Harry  stared 
out  of  the  window.  The  end  would  come  in  a  month  or 
two — perhaps  sooner ;  and  then,  what  would  happen  ?  He 
would  take  his  place  as  head  of  the  family.  He  laughed 
to  himself — head  of  the  family!  when  Clare  and  Garrett 
and  Robin  all  hated  him  ?     Head  of  the  family ! 


142  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

The  sky  was  grey  and  the  sea  flecked  with  white  horses. 
It  was  shifting  colours  to-day  like  a  mother-of-pearl  shell 
— a  great  band  of  dark  grey  on  the  horizon,  and  then  a 
soft  carpet  of  green  turning  to  grey  again  by  the  shore. 
The  grey  roofs  of  the  Cove  crowded  down  to  the  edge  of 
the  land,  seeming  to  lean  a  little  forward,  as  though  listen- 
ing to  what  the  sea  had  to  say ;  the  sun,  breaking  mistily 
through  the  clouds,  was  a  round  ball  of  dull  gold — a  line 
of  breakwater,  far  in  the  distance,  seemed  ever  about  to 
advance  down  the  stretch  of  sea  to  the  shore,  as  though 
it  would  hurl  itself  on  the  cluster  of  brown  sails  in  the 
little  bay,  huddling  there  for  protection.  Head  of  the 
House !  What  was  the  use,  when  the  House  didn't  want 
him  ? 

His  father  was  watching  him  and  seemed  to  have  read 
his  thoughts.  "  You'll  take  my  place,  Harry  ?  "  he  said. 
"  They  won't  like  it,  you  know.  It  was  partly  my  fault. 
I  sent  you  away  and  you  grew  up  away,  and  they've  al- 
ways been  here.  I've  been  wanting  you  to  come  back  all 
this  time,  and  it  wasn't  because  I  was  angry  that  I  didn't 
ask  you — but  it  was  better  for  you.  You  don't  see  it 
yet;  you  came  back  thinking  they'd  welcome  you  and  be 
glad  to  see  you,  and  you're  a  bit  hurt  that  they  haven't. 
They've  been  hard  to  you,  all  of  'em — your  boy  as  well. 
I've  known,  right  enough.  But  it  cuts  both  ways,  you  \ 
see.  They  can't  see  your  point  of  view,  and  they're 
afraid  of  the  open  air  you're  letting  in  on  to  them. 
You're  too  soft,  Harry;  you've  shown  them  that  it  hurts^ 
and  they've  wanted  it  to  hurt.  Give  'em  a  stiff  back, 
Harry,  give  'em  a  stiff  back.  Then  you'll  have  'em. 
That's  like  us  Trojans.  We're  devilish  cruel  because  \ 
we're   devilish   proud;    if   you're   kind   we   hurt,    but   if 


THE  WOODE:?^  horse  143 

you  do  a  bit  of  hurting  on  your  own  account  we  like 
it." 

"  I've  made  a  mess  of  it/'  Harry  said,  "  a  hopeless 
mess  of  it.  I've  tried  everything,  and  it's  all  failed. 
I'd  better  back  out  of  it — "  Then,  after  a  pause, 
^^  Robin  hates  me " 

Sir  Jeremy  chuckled. 

^'  Oh  no,  he  doesn't.  He's  like  the  rest  of  us.  You 
wanted  him  to  give  himself  away  at  once,  and  of  course 
he  wouldn't.  They're  ti-ying  you  and  waiting  to  see 
what  you'll  do,  and  Robin's  just  following  on.  You'll 
be  all  right,  only  give  'em  a  stiff  back,  the  whole  crowd  of 


'em." 


Suddenly  his  wrinkled  yellow  hand  shot  out  from  under 
the  bedclothes  and  he  grasped  his  son's.  "  You're  a 
damned  fine  chap,"  he  said,  "  and  I'm  proud  of  you — 
only  you're  a  bit  of  a  fool — sentimental,  you  know.  But 
you'll  make  more  of  the  place  than  I've  ever  done,  God 
bless  you — "  after  which  he  lay  back  on  his  pillows  again, 
and  was  soon  asleep. 

Harry  waited  for  a  little,  and  then  he  stole  out  of  the 
room.  He  told  the  nurse  to  take  his  place,  and  went 
downstairs. 

It  was  four  o'clock,  and  he  was  going  to  tea  at  the 
Bethels'.  He  had  been  there  pretty  frequently  during 
the  past  week — that  and  the  Cove  were  his  only  courts 
of  welcome.  He  knew  that  his  going  there  had  only 
aggravated  his  offences  in  the  eyes  of  his  sister,  but  that 
he  could  not  help.  Why  should  they  dictate  his  friends 
to  him  ? 

The  little  drawing-room  was  tidier  than  usual.  There 
were  some  flowers,  and  the  chairs  and  sofa  were  not  lit- 


144  THE  WOODEN"  HORSE 

tered  with  books  and  needlework  and  strange  fragments 
of  feminine  garments.  Mrs.  Bethel  was  gorgeous  in  a 
green  silk  dress  and  the  paint  was  more  obtrusive  than 
ever.  Her  eyes  were  red  as  though  she  had  been  crying^^ 
and  her  hair  as  usual  had  escaped  bounds. 

Mary  was  making  tea  and  smiled  up  at  him.  "  Shout 
at  father,"  she  said.  "  He's  downstairs  in  the  study^ 
browsing.     He'll  come  up  when  he  knows  you  are  here."' 

Harry  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  called,  and 
Bethel  came  rushing  up.  Sunday  made  no  difference  to 
his  clothes,  and  he  wore  the  grey  suit  and  flannel  collar 
of  their  first  meeting. 

His  greeting  was,  as  ever,  boisterous.  "  Hullo ! 
Trojan!  that's  splendid!  I  was  afraid  they'd  carry  you 
off  to  that  church  of  yours  or  you'd  have  a  tea-party  or 
something.     I'm  glad  they've  spared  you." 

"  ISTo,  I  went  this  morning,"  Harry  answered,  "  all  of 
us  solemnly  in  the  family  coach.  I  thought  that  was 
enough  for  one  day." 

"  We  used  to  have  a  carriage  when  papa  was  alive," 
said  Mrs.  Bethel,  "  and  we  drove  to  church  every  Sunday. 
We  were  the  only  people  beside  the  Porsons,  and  theirs 
was  only  a  pony-cart." 

"  Well,  for  my  part,  I  hate  driving,"  said  Mary.  "  It 
puts  you  in  a  bad  temper  for  the  sermon." 

"  Let's  have  tea,"  said  Bethel.  "  I'm  as  hungry  as 
though  I'd  listened  to  fifty  parsons." 

And,  indeed,  he  always  was.  He  ate  as  though  he  had 
had  no  meal  for  a  month  at  least,  and  he  had  utterly  de- 
molished the  tea-cake  before  he  realised  that  no  one  else 
had  had  any. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  I'm  so  sorry,"  he  said  ruefully.     "  Mary, 


THE  WOODEK  HOESE  145 

■why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I'll  never  forgive  myself — ^" 
and  proceeded  to  finish  the  saffron  buns. 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Mary,  "  we're  going  to  church 
to-night,  all  of  us,  and  if  you're  very  good,  Mr.  Trojan, 
you  shall  come  too." 

Harry  paused  for  a  moment.  "  I  shall  be  delighted," 
he  said ;  "  but  where  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  There's  a  little  church  called  St.  Sennan's.  You 
haven't  heard  of  it,  probably.  It's  past  the  Cove — on  a 
hill  looking  over  the  sea.  It's  the  most  tumble-down  old 
place  you  ever  saw,  and  nobody  goes  there  except  a  few 
fishermen,  but  we  know  the  clergyman  and  like  him.  I 
like  the  place  too — you  can  listen  to  the  sea  if  you're 
bored  with  the  sermon." 

"  The  parson  is  like  one  of  the  prophets,"  said  Bethel. 
"  Too  strong  for  the  Pendragon  point  of  view.  It's  a 
place  of  ruins,  Trojan,  and  the  congTegation  are  Kke  a 
crowd  of  ancient  Britons — but  you'll  like  it." 

Mrs.  Bethel  was  unwontedly  quiet — it  was  obvious  that 
she  was  in  distress ;  Mary,  too,  seemed  to  speak  at  random, 
and  there  was  an  air  of  constraint  in  the  room. 

When  they  set  off  for  church  the  grey  sky  had  changed 
to  blue;  the  sun  had  just  set,  and  little  pink  clouds  like 
fairy  cushions  hung  round  the  moon.  As  they  passed 
out  of  the  town,  through  the  crooked  path  down  to  the 
Cove,  Harry  had  again  that  strong  sense  of  Cornwall  that 
came  to  him  sometimes  so  suddenly,  so  strangely,  that  it 
was  almost  mysterious,  for  it  seemed  to  have  no  immediate 
cause,  no  absolute  relation  to  surrounding  sights  or  sounds. 
Perhaps  to-night  it  was  in  the  misty  half-light  of  the  shin- 
ing moon  and  the  dying  sun,  the  curious  stillness  of  the 
air  so  that  the  sounds  and  cries  of  the  town  came  distinctly- 


146  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

on  the  wind,  the  scent  of  some  wild  flowers,  the  faint 
smell  of  the  chrysanthemums  that  Mary  was  wearing  at 
her  breast. 

"  By  Jove,  it's  Cornwall,"  he  said,  drawing  a  great 
hreath.  He  was  walking  a  little  ahead  with  Mary,  and 
he  turned  to  her  as  she  spoke.  She  was  walking  with  her 
head  bent,  and  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  "  What's  up  ? " 
he  said. 

"  IsTothing,"  she  answered,  trying  to  smile. 

"  But  there  is,"  he  insisted.  "  I'm  not  blind.  I've 
bored  you  with  my  worries.  You  might  honour  me  with 
yours." 

"  There  isn't  anything  really.  One's  foolish  to  mind, 
and,  indeed,  it's  not  for  myself  that  I  care — but  it's 
mother." 

"  What  have  they  done  ?  " 

"  They  don't  like  us — none  of  them  do.  I  don't  know 
why  they  should ;  we  aren't,  perhaps,  very  likeable.  But 
it  is  cruel  of  them  to  show  it.  Mother,  you  see,  likes 
meeting  people — we  had  it  in  London,  friends  I  mean, 
lots  of  them,  and  then  when  we  came  here  we  had  none. 
We  have  never  had  any  from  the  beginning.  We  tried, 
perhaps  a  little  too  hard,  to  have  some.  We  gave  little 
parties  and  they  failed,  and  then  people  began  to  think 
us  peculiar,  and  if  they  once  do  that  here  you're  done  for. 
Perhaps  we  didn't  see  it  quite  soon  enough  and  we  went 
on  trying,  and  then  they  began  to  snub  us." 

"Snub  you?" 

"  Yes,  you  know  the  kind  of  thing.  You  saw  that  first 
day  we  met  you " 

"And  it  hurts?" 

"  Yes — for  mother.     She  still  tries ;    she   doesn't   see 


THE  WOODE]Sr  HOKSE  147 

that  it's  no  good,  and  each  time  that  she  goes  and  calls, 
something  happens  and  she  comes  back  like  she  did  to- 
day. I  don't  suppose  they  mean  to  be  unkind — it  is  only 
that  we  are,  you  see,  peculiar,  and  that  doesn't  do  here. 
Eather  wears  funny  clothes  and  never  sees  any  one,  and 
so  they  think  there  must  be  something  wrong " 

"  It's  a  shame,"  he  said  indignantly. 

"  ISTo,"  she  answered,  "  it  isn't  really.  It's  one's  own 
fault — only  sometimes  I  hate  it  all.  Why  couldn't  we 
have  stayed  in  London  ?  We  had  friends  there,  and 
father's  clothes  didn't  matter.  Here  such  little  things 
make  such  a  big  difference  " — which  was,  Harry  reflected, 
a  complete  epitome  of  the  life  of  Pendragon. 

"  I'm  not  whining,"  she  went  on.  "  We  all  have 
things  that  we  don't  like,  but  when  you're  without  a 
friend " 

"  Kot  quite,"  he  said ;  "  you  must  count  me."  He 
stopped  for  a  moment.  "  You  will  count  me,  won't 
you  ? " 

"  You  realise  what  you  are  doing,"  she  said.  "You 
^are  entering  into  alliance  with  outcasts." 

"  You  forget,"  he  answered,  "  that  I,  also,  am  an  out- 
cast.    We  can  at  least  be  outcasts  together." 

"  It  is  good  of  you,"  she  said  gravely ;  "  I  am  selfish 
enough  to  accept  it.  If  I  was  really  worth  anything,  I 
would  never  let  you  see  us  again.     It  means  ostracism." 

"  We  will  fight  them,"  he  answered  gaily.  "  We  will 
storm  the  camp ;  "  but  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  their 
stronghold,  with  "  The  Elutes  "  as  the  heart  of  the  de- 
fence, would  be  hard  to  overcome. 

They  climbed  up  the  hill  to  the  little  church  with  the  sea 
roaring  at  their  feet.     A  strong  wind  was  blowing,  and. 


148  THE  WOODEI^r  HOESE 

for  a  moment,  at  a  steep  turn  of  the  hill,  slie  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm ;  at  the  touch  his  heart  beat  furiously — 
in  that  moment  he  knew  that  he  loved  her,  that  he  had 
loved  her  from  the  first  moment  that  he  had  seen  her,  and 
he  passed  on  into  the  church. 

It  was,  as  Bethel  had  said,  almost  in  ruins — the  little 
nave  was  complete,  but  ivy  clambered  in  the  aisles  and 
birds  had  built  their  nests  in  the  pillars.  Three  misty 
candles  flickered  on  the  altar,  and  some  lights  burnt  over 
the  pulpit,  but  there  were  strange  half-lights  and  shadows 
so  that  it  seemed  a  place  of  ghosts.  Through  the  open 
door  the  night  air  blew,  bringing  with  it  the  beating  of 
the  sea,  and  the  breath  of  grass  and  flowers.  The  con- 
gregation was  scanty ;  some  fishermen  and  their  wives,  two 
or  three  old  women,  and  a  baby  that  made  no  sound  but 
listened  wonderingly  with  its  finger  in  its  mouth.  The 
clergyman  was  a  tall  man  with  a  long  white  beard  and 
he  did  everything,  even  playing  the  little  wheezy  har- 
monium. His  sermon  was  very  short  and  very  simple, 
but  was  listened  to  with  rapt  attention.  There  was  some- 
thing strangely  intense  about  it  all,  and  the  hymns  were 
sung  with  an  eagerness  that  Harry  had  never  heard  else- 
where. This  was  a  contrast  with  the  church  of  the  morn- 
ing, just  as  the  Cove  was  a  contrast  with  Pendragon ;  the 
parting  of  the  ways  seemed  to  face  Harry  at  every  mo- 
ment of  his  day — his  choice  was  being  urgently  demanded 
and  he  had  no  longer  any  hesitation. 

ISTewsome  was  there,  and  he  spoke  to  him  for  a  moment 
on  coming  out.  "  You'll  be  lonely  '  up-along,'  "  he  said ; 
"'^  you  belong  to  us." 

They  all  four  walked  back  together. 

"  How  did  you  like  our  ancient  Britons  ?  "  said  Bethel. 


THE  WOODEIT  HOESE  149 


(( 


It  was  wonderful,"  said  Harrj.     "  Thank  you  for 
taking  me." 

They  were  all  very  silent,  but  when  they  parted  at  the 
turning  of  the  road  Bethel  laughed.  "  JSTow  you  are  one 
of  us,  Trojan.     We  have  claimed  you." 

As  he  shook  Mary's  hand  he  whispered,  "  This  has 
been  a  great  evening  for  me." 

"  I  was  wrong  to  grumble  to  you,"  she  answered. 
"  You  have  worries  enough  of  your  own.  I  release  you 
from  your  pledge." 

"  I  will  not  be  released,"  he  said. 

That  night  Clare  Trojan,  before  going  to  bed,  went  into 
Garrett's  room.  He  was  working  at  his  book,  and,  as 
usual,  hinted  that  to  take  such  advantage  of  his  good- 
nature by  her  interruption  was  unfair. 

"  I  suppose  to-morrow  morning  wouldn't  do  instead, 
Clare — it's  a  bit  late." 

"  ISTo,  it  wouldn't — I  want  you  to  listen  to  me.  It's 
important." 

"  Well  ?  "  he  seated  himself  in  the  most  comfortable 
chair  and  sighed.     "  Don't  be  too  long." 

She  was  excited  and  stood  over  him  as  though  she 
would  force  him  to  be  interested. 

"  It's  too  much,  Garrett.     It's  got  to  stop." 

"What?" 

"  Harry.     Some  one  must  speak  to  him." 

Garrett  smiled.  "  That,  of  course,  will  be  you,  Clare 
— you  always  do ;  but  if  it's  my  permission  that  you  want 
you  may  have  it  and  welcome.  But  we've  discussed  all 
this  before.     What's  the  new  turn  of  affairs  ?  " 

"  ]^o.  I  want  more  than  your  permission ;  we  must 
take  some  measures  together.     It's  no  good  unless  we  act 


150  THE  WOODED  HORSE 

at  once.  Miss  Ponsonby  told  me  this  afternoon — it  has 
hecome  common  talk — the  things  he  does,  I  mean.  She 
did  not  want  to  say  anything,  but  I  made  her.  He  goes 
down  continually  to  some  low  public-house  in  the  Cove ;  he 
is  with  those  Bethels  all  day,  and  will  see  nothing  of  any 
of  the  decent  people  in  the  place — he  is  becoming  a  com- 
mon byword." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  Garrett  said,  "  that  he  cannot  choose 
his  friends  better." 

"  He  must — something  must  be  done.  It  is  not  for 
ourselves  only,  though  of  course  that  counts.  But  it  is 
the  House — our  name.  They  laugh  at  him,  and  so  at  all 
of  us.     Besides,  there  is  Eobin." 

Garrett  looked  at  his  sister  curiously — he  had  never 
seen  her  so  excited  before.  But  she  found  it  no  laughing 
matter.  Miss  Ponsonby  would  not  have  spoken  unless 
matters  had  gone  pretty  far.  The  Cove !  The  Bethels ! 
Eobin's  father ! 

For,  after  all,  it  was  for  Eobin  that  she  cared.  She 
felt  that  she  was  fighting  his  battles,  and  so  subtly  con- 
cealed from  herself  that  she  was,  in  reality,  fighting  her 
own.  She  was  in  a  state  of  miserable  uncertainty.  She 
was  not  sure  of  her  father,  she  was  not  sure  of  Eobin, 
scarcely  sure  of  Garrett — everything  threatened  disaster. 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  "  Garrett  had  no  desire  that  the 
responsibility  should  be  shifted  in  his  direction ;  he  feared 
responsibility  as  the  rock  on  which  the  ship  of  his  care- 
fully preserved  proprieties  might  come  to  wreck, 

"  Do  ?  Why,  speak — it  must  be  done.  Think  of  him 
during  the  whole  time  that  he  has  been  here — not  only  to 
Pendragon,  but  to  us.  He  has  made  no  attempt  whatever 
to  fit  in  with  our  ways  or  thoughts;  he  has  shown  no  de- 


THE  WOODED  HOESE  151 

sire  to  understand  any  of  us ;  and  now  he  must  be  pulled 
up,  for  his  own  sake  as  well  as  ours." 

But  Garrett  offered  her  little  assistance.  He  had  no 
proposals  to  offer,  and  was  barren  of  all  definite  efforts; 
he  hated  definite  lines  of  any  kind,  but  he  promised  to  fall 
in  with  her  plans. 

"  I  will  come  down  to  breakfast,"  she  said,  "  and  will 
speak  to  him  afterwards." 

Garrett  nodded  wearily  and  went  back  to  his  work. 
On  the  next  morning  the  crisis  came. 

Breakfast  was  a  silent  meal  at  all  times.  Harry  had 
learnt  to  avoid  the  cheerful  familiarity  of  his  first  morn- 
ing— it  would  not  do.  But  the  heavy  solemnity  of  the 
massive  silver  teapot,  the  ham  and  cold  game  on  the  side- 
board, the  racks  of  toast  that  were  so  needlessly  numerous, 
drove  him  into  himself,  and,  like  his  brother  and  son, 
he  disappeared  behind  folds  of  newspaper  until  the  meal 
was  over. 

Clare  frequently  came  down  to  breakfast,  and  therefore 
he  saw  nothing  unusual  in  her  appearance.  The  meal 
was  quite  silent ;  Clare  had  her  letters — and  he  was  about 
to  rise  and  leave  the  room,  when  she  spoke. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Harry.  I  want  to  say  something. 
K'o,  Robin,  don't  go — what  I'm  going  to  say  concerns  us 
all." 

Garrett  remained  behind  his  newspaper,  which  showed 
that  he  had  received  previous  warning.  Eobin  looked  up 
in  surprise,  and  then  quickly  at  his  father,  who  had 
moved  to  the  fireplace. 

"  About  me,  Clare  ? "  He  tried  to  speak  calmly,  but 
his  voice  shook  a  little.  He  saw  that  it  was  a  premedi- 
tated attack,  but  he  wished  that  Robin  hadn't  been  there. 


152  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

He  was,  on  the  whole,  glad  that  the  moment  had  come; 
the  last  week  had  been  almost  unbearable,  and  the  situa- 
tion was  bound  to  arrive  at  a  crisis — well,  here  it  was, 
but  he  wished  that  Eobin  were  not  there.  As  he  looked 
at  the  boy  for  a  moment  his  face  was  white  and  his  breath 
came  sharply.  He  had  never  loved  him  quite  so  passion- 
ately as  at  that  moment  when  he  seemed  about  to  lose  him. 

Clare  had  chosen  her  time  and  her  audience  well,  and 
suddenly  he  felt  that  he  hated  her;  he  was  immediately 
«alm  and  awaited  her  attack  almost  nonchalantly,  his  hand 
Testing  on  the  mantelpiece,  his  legs  crossed. 

Clare  was  still  sitting  at  the  table,  her  face  half  turned 
to  Harry,  her  glance  resting  on  Robin.  She  tapped  the 
table  with  her  letters,  but  otherwise  gave  no  sign  of  agi- 
tation. 

"  Yes — about  you,  Harry.  It  is  only  that  I  think  we 
have  reason — almost  a  right — to  expect  that  you  should 
yield  a  little  more  thoroughly  to  our  wishes.  Both  Gar- 
rett " — this  with  emphasis — "  and  myself  are  sure  that 
your  failing  to  do  so  is  only  due  to  a  misconception  on 
your  part,  and  it  is  because  we  are  sure  that  you  have 
only  to  realise  them  to  give  way  a  little  to  them,  that  I — 
we — are  speaking." 

"  I  certainly  had  not  realised  that  I  had  failed  in  defer- 
ence to  your  wishes,  Clare." 

"  1*^0,  not  failed — and  it  is  absurd  to  talk  of  deference. 
It  is  only  that  I  feel — ^we  all  feel " — this  with  another 
glance  at  Robin — "  that  it  is  naturally  impossible  for  you 
to  realise  exactly  what  are  the  things  required  of  us  here. 
Things  that  would  in  I^ew  Zealand  have  been  of  no  im- 
portance at  all." 

"Such  as ?" 


THE  WOODEIST  HORSE  153 

"  Well,  you  must  remember  that  we  have,  as  it  were, 
the  eyes  of  all  the  town  upon  us.  We  occupy  a  position 
of  some  importance,  and  we  are  definitely  expected  to 
maintain  that  position  without  lack  of  dignity." 

"  Won't  you  come  to  the  point,  Clare  ?  It  is  a  little 
hard  to  see " 

"  Oh,  things  are  obvious  enough — surely,  Harry,  you 
must  see  for  yourself.  People  were  ready  enough  to  give 
you  a  warm  welcome  when  you  returned.  I — we — all 
of  us,  were  only  too  glad.  But  you  repulsed  us  all. 
Why,  on  the  very  day  after  your  arrival  you  were  ex- 
tremely— I  am  sorry,  but  there  is  no  other  word — dis- 
courteous to  the  Miss  Ponsonbys.  You  have  made  your 
friends  almost  entirely  amongst  the  fisher  class,  a  strange 
thing,  surely,  for  a  Trojan  to  do,  and  you  now,  I  believe, 
spend  your  evenings  frequently  in  a  low  public-house  re- 
sorted to  by  such  persons — at  any  rate  you  have  spent 
them  neither  here  nor  at  the  Club,  the  two  obvious  places. 
I  am  only  mentioning  these  things  because  I  think  that 
you  may  not  have  seen  that  such  matters — trivial  as  they 
may  seem  to  you — reflect  discredit,  not  only  on  yourself, 
but  also,  indirectly,  on  all  of  us." 

"  You  forget,  Clare,  that  I  have  many  old  friends  down 
at  the  Cove.  They  were  there  when  I  was  a  boy.  The 
people  in  Pendragon  have  changed  very  largely,  almost 
entirely.  There  is  scarcely  any  one  whom  I  knew  twenty 
years  ago ;  it  is,  I  should  have  thought,  quite  natural  that 
I  should  go  to  see  my  old  friends  again  after  so  long  an 
absence." 

He  was  trying  to  speak  quietly  and  calmly.  His  heart 
was  beating  furiously,  but  he  knew  that  if  he  once  lost 
control,    he   would   lose,   too,   his   position.     But,    as   he 


154  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

watched  them,  and  saw  their  cold,  -unmoved  attitude  his 
anger  rose;  he  had  to  keep  it  down  with  both  hands 
clenched — it  was  only  by  remembering  Robin  that  the 
effort  was  successful. 

^''  IsTatural  to  go  and  see  them  on  your  return — of 
course.  But  to  return,  to  go  continually,  no.  I  cannot 
help  feeling,  Harry,  that  you  have  been  a  little  seliish. 
That  you  have  scarcely  seen  our  side  of  the  question. 
Things  have  changed  in  the  last  twenty  years — changed 
enormously.  We  have  seen  them,  studied  them,  and,  I 
think,  understood  them.  You  come  back  and  face  them 
without  any  preparation;  surely  you  cannot  expect  to 
understand  them  quite  as  we  do." 

"  This  seems  to  me,  I  must  confess,  Clare,  a  great  deal 
of  concern  about  a  very  little  matter.  Surely  I  am  not  a 
person  of  such  importance  that  a  few  visits  to  the  Cove 
can  ruin  us  socially  ?  " 

"  Ah !  that  is  what  you  don't  understand !  Little 
things  matter  here.  People  watch,  and  are,  I  am  afraid, 
only  too  ready  to  fasten  on  matters  that  do  not  concern 
them.  Besides,  it  is  not  only  the  Cove — there  are  other 
things — there  are,  for  instance,  the  Bethels." 

At  the  name  Robin  started.  He  liked  Mary  Bethel, 
had  liked  her  very  much  indeed,  but  he  had  known  that 
his  aunt  disapproved  of  them  and  had  been  careful  to 
disguise  his  meetings.  But  the  instant  thought  in  his 
mind  concerned  the  Feverels.  If  the  Bethels  were  im- 
possible socially,  what  about  Dahlia  and  her  mother? 
What  would  his  aunt  say  if  she  knew  of  that  little  affair  ? 
And  the  question  which  had  attacked  him  acutely  during 
the  last  week  in  various  forms  hurt  him  now  like  a  knife. 

He  watched  his  father  curiously.     He  did  not  look  as 


THE  WOODEIT  HOESE  155 

if  he  cared  very  greatly.  Of  course  Aunt  Clare  was  per- 
fectly right.  He  had  been  selfishly  indifferent,  had  cared 
nothing  for  their  feelings.  Randal  had  shown  jDlainly 
enough  how  impossible  he  was.  Indeed  the  shadow  of 
Randal  lurked  in  the  room  in  a  manner  that  would  have 
pleased  that  young  gentleman  intensely  had  he  known  it. 
Clare  had  it  continually  before  her,  urging  her,  advising 
her,  commanding  her. 

At  the  mention  of  the  Bethels,  Harry  looked  up  sharply. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  leave  them  out  of  the  dis- 
cussion."    His  voice  trembled  a  little. 

"  Why  ?  Are  they  so  much  to  you  ?  They  have,  how- 
ever, a  good  deal  to  do  with  my  argument.  Do  you  think 
it  was  wise  to  neglect  the  whole  of  Pendragon  for  the 
society  of  the  Bethels — people  of  whom  one  is  an  idler 
and  loafer  and  the  other  a  lunatic  ?  "  Clare  was  becom- 
ing excited. 

"  You  forget,  Clare,  that  I  first  met  them  in  your  draw- 
ing-room." 

"  They  were  there  entirely  against  my  will.  I  showed 
them  that  quite  distinctly  at  the  time.  They  will  not 
come  again." 

"  That  may  be.  But  they  are,  as  you  have  said,  my 
friends.  I  cannot,  therefore,  hear  them  insulted.  They 
must  be  left  out  of  the  discussion." 

On  any  other  matter  he  could  have  heard  her  quietly, 
but  the  Bethels  she  must  leave  alone.  He  could  see 
Mary,  as  he  spoke,  turning  on  the  hill  and  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm ;  her  hair  blew  in  the  wind  and  the  light 
in  her  eyes  shone  under  the  moon.  He  had  for  a  moment 
forgotten  Robin. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  have  made  my  meaning  clear.     We 


156  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

wish  you — out  of  regard  for  us,  if  for  no  other  reason — 
to  be  a  little  more  careful  both  of  your  company  and  of 
your  statements.  It  is  hard  for  you  to  see  the  position 
quite  as  we  do,  I  know,  but  I  cannot  say  that  you  have 
made  any  attempt  whatsoever  to  see  it  with  our  eyes.  It 
seems  useless  to  appeal  to  you  on  behalf  of  the  House,  but 
that,  too,  is  worth  some  consideration.  We  have  been 
here  for  many  hundreds  of  years;  we  should  continue  in 
the  paths  that  our  ancestors  have  marked  out.  I  am 
only  saying  what  you  yourself  feel,  Garrett  ?  " 

"  Absolutely."  Garrett  looked  up  from  his  paper.  "  I 
think  you  must  see,  Harry,  that  we  are  quite  justified  in 
our  demands — Clare  has  put  it  quite  plainly." 

"  Quite,"  said  Harry.     "  And  you,  Robin  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  Aunt  Clare  is  perfectly  right,"  an- 
swered Robin  coldly. 

Harry's  face  was  very  white.  He  spoke  rapidly  and 
his  hand  gripped  the  marble  of  the  mantelpiece;  he  did 
not  want  them  to  see  that  his  legs  were  trembling. 

"  Yes.  I  am  glad  to  know  exactly  where  we  stand. 
It  is  better  for  all  of  us.  I  might  have  taken  it  submis- 
sively, Clare,  had  you  left  out  your  last  count  against  me. 
That  was  unworthy  of  you.  But  haven't  you,  perhaps, 
seen  just  a  little  too  completely  your  own  point  of  view 
and  omitted  mine  ?  I  came  back  a  stranger.  I  was  ready 
to  do  anything  to  win  your  regard.  I  was  perhaps  a  little 
foolishly  sentimental  about  it,  but  I  am  a  very  easy  per- 
son to  understand — it  could  not  have  been  verv  difiicult. 
I  imagined,  foolishly,  that  things  would  be  quite  easy — 
that  there  would  be  no  complications.  I  soon  found  that 
I  had  made  a  mistake ;  you  have  taught  me  more  during 
the  last  fortnight  than  I  had  ever  learnt  in  all  my  twenty 


( 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  157 

years  abroad.  I  liave  learnt  that  to  expect  affection  from 
your  own  relations,  even  from  your  son,  is  absurd — af- 
fection is  bad  form ;  that,  of  course,  was  rather  a  shock. 

"  You  have  had,  all  of  you,  your  innings  during  the 
last  fortnight.  You  have  decided,  with  your  friends,  that 
I  am  impossible,  and  from  that  moment  you  have  delib- 
erately cut  me.  You  have  driven  me  to  find  friends  of 
my  own  and  then  you  have  complained  of  the  friends  that 
I  have  chosen.  That  is  completed— in  a  fortnight  you 
have  shown  me,  quite  plainly,  your  position.  Now  I  will 
show  you  mine. 

"  You  have  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  me — 
for  the  future  the  position  shall  be  reversed.  I  shall  alter 
in  no  respect  whatever,  either  my  friendships  or  my  habits. 
I  shall  go  where  I  please,  do  what  I  please,  see  whom  I 
please.  We  shall,  of  course,  disguise  our  position  from 
the  world.  I  have  learnt  that  disguise  is  a  very  impor- 
tant part  of  one's  education.  Our  former  relations  from 
this  moment  cease  entirely." 

He  was  speaking  apparently  calmly,  but  his  anger  was 
at  white-heat.  All  the  veiled  insults  and  disappointments 
of  the  last  fortnight  rose  before  him,  but,  above  all,  he 
saw  Mary  as  though  he  were  defending  her,  there,  in  the 
room.     He  would  never  forgive  them. 

Clare  was  surprised,  but  she  did  not  show  it.  She  got 
up  from  the  table  and  walked  to  the  door.  "  Very  well, 
Harry,"  she  said,  "  I  think  you  will  regret  it." 

Garrett  rose  too,  his  hand  trembling  a  little  as  he 
folded  his  newspaper. 

"  That  is,  I  suppose,  an  ultimatum,"  he  said.  "  It  is 
a  piece  of  insolence  that  I  shall  not  forget." 

Kobin  was  turning  to  leave  the  room.     Harry  suddenly 


158  THE  WOODED  HORSE 

saw  liim.  He  had  forgotten  him;  he  had  thought  only 
of  Mary. 

"  Eobin,"  he  whispered,  stej^ping  towards  him. 
"  Robin — you  don't — think  as  they  do  ?  " 

"  I  agree  entirely  with  my  aunt,"  he  said,  and  he  left 
the  room,  closing  the  door  quietly  behind  him. 

Harry's  defiance  had  left  him.  Eor  a  moment  the  only 
thing  that  he  saw  clearly  in  a  world  that  had  suddenly 
grown  dark  and  cold  was  his  son.  He  had  forgotten  the 
rest — his  sister,  Mary,  Pendragon — it  all  seemed  to  mat- 
ter nothing. 

He  had  come  from  ISTew  Zealand  to  love  his  son — for 
nothing  else. 

He  had  an  impulse  to  run  after  him,  to  seize  him,  and 
hold  him,  and  force  him  to  come  back. 

Then  he  remembered — his  pride  stung  him.  He  would 
fight  it  out  to  the  end;  he  would,  as  his  father  said, 
"  show  them  a  stiff  back." 

He  was  very  white,  and  for  a  moment  he  had  to  steady 
himself  by  the  table.  The  silver  teapot,  the  ham,  the 
racks  of  toast  were  all  there — how  strange,  when  the  rest 
of  the  world  had  changed;  he  was  quite  alone  now — he 
must  remember  that — he  had  no  son.  And  he,  too, 
closed  the  door  quietly  behind  him. 


s 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OME  letters  during  this  week: — 


23  South  WICK  Ceescent,  W.. 
October  10,  1906. 

My  dear  Robin, — I  should  have  written  before,  I  am 
ashamed  of  my  omission,  but  my  approaching  departure 
abroad  has  thrown  a  great  many  things  on  to  my  hands; 
I  have  a  paper  to  finish  for  Clarkson  and  an  essay  for  the 
New  Revieiu,  and  letter-writing  has  been  at  a  standstill. 
It  was  delightful — that  little  peep  of  you  that  I  got — and 
it  only  made  me  regret  the  more  that  it  is  impossible  to 
see  much  of  you  nowadays.  I  cannot  help  feeling  that 
there  is  a  danger  of  vegetation  if  one  limits  oneself  too 
completely  to  a  provincial  life,  and,  charming  though 
Cornwall  is,  its  very  fascination  causes  one  to  forget  the 
importance  of  the  outer  world.  I  fancied  that  I  dis- 
cerned signs  that  you  yourself  felt  this  confinement  and 
wished  for  something  broader.  Well,  why  not  have  it? 
I  confess  that  I  see  no  reason.  Come  up  to  London  for  a 
time — go  abroad — your  beloved  Germany  is  waiting  for 
you,  and  a  year  at  one  of  the  Universities  would  be  both 
amusing  and  instructive.  These  are  only  suggestions;  I 
should  hesitate  to  offer  them  at  all  were  it  not  that  there 
has  always  been  such  sympathy  between  us  that  I  know 
you  will  not  resent  them.  Of  course,  the  arrival  of  your 
father  has  made  considerable  difference.  I  must  say, 
honestly,  that  I  regretted  to  see  that  you  had  not  more  in 
common.  The  fault,  I  expect,  has  been  on  both  sides ;  as 
I  said  to  you  before,  it  has  been  hard  for  him  to  realise 
exactly  what  it  is  that  we  consider  important.  We — quite 
mistakenly  possiblv — have  come  to  feel  that  certain  things, 

159 


160  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

art,    literature,    music,    are    absolutely    essential    to    us, 
morally  and  physically. 

They  are  nothing  at  all  to  him,  and  I  can  quite  under- 
stand that  you  have  found  it  difficult — almost  impossible 
— to  grasp  his  standpoint.  I  must  confess  that  he  did  not 
seem  to  me  to  attempt  to  consider  yours;  but  it  is  easy, 
and  indeed  impertinent,  to  criticise,  and  I  hope  that,  on 
the  next  occasion  of  your  writing,  I  shall  hear  that  things 
are  going  smoothly  and  that  the  first  inevitable  awkward- 
nesses have  worn  off. 

I  must  stop.  I  have  let  my  pen  wander  away  with  me. 
But  do  consider  what  I  said  about  coming  up  to  town ;  I 
am  sure  that  it  is  bad  for  you  in  every  way — this  burial. 
Think  of  your  friends,  old  chap,  and  let  them  see  some- 
thing of  you.     Yours  ever, 

Lanctblot  Eanbal. 


"  The  Flutes,"  Pendeagon, 
October  12,  1906. 

My  deak  Lajstce, — Thanks  very  much  for  your  letter. 
This  mustn't  pretend  to  be  anything  of  a  letter.  I  have 
a  thousand  things  to  do,  and  no  time  to  do  them.  It  was 
very  delightful  seeing  you,  and  I,  too,  was  extremely 
sorry  we  could  not  see  more  of  you.  My  aunt  enjoyed 
your  visit  enormously,  and  told  me  to  remind  you  that 
you  are  expected  here,  for  a  long  stay,  on  your  return 
from  Germanv. 

Yes,  I  was  worried  and  am  still.  There  are  various 
things — "  it  never  rains  but  it  pours  " — but  I  cannot  feel 
that  they  are  in  the  least  due  to  my  vegetating.  I  haven't 
the  least  intention  of  sticking  here,  but  my  grandfather 
is,  as  you  know,  very  ill,  and  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  get 
away  at  present. 

Eesent  what  you  said!  Why,  no,  of  course  not.  We 
are  too  good  friends  for  resentment,  and  I  am  only  too 
grateful  for  your  advice.  The  situation  here  at  this 
moment    is    peculiar — Meredithian — and,    although    one 


THE  WOODEIT  HOESE  161 

ought  perhaps  to  be  silent  concerning  it,  I  know  that  I 
can  trust  you  absolutely  and  I  need  your  advice  badly. 
Besides,  I  must  speak  to  some  one  about  it;  I  have  been 
thinking  it  over  all  day  and  am  quite  at  a  loss.  There 
was  battle  royal  this  morning  after  breakfast,  and  my 
father  was  extremely  rude  to  my  aunt,  acting  apparently 
from  quite  selfish  motives.  I  want  to  look  at  it  fairly, 
but  I  can,  honestly,  see  it  in  no  other  light.  My  aunt 
accused  him  of  indifference  with  regard  to  the  family  good 
name.  She,  quite  rightly,  I  think,  pointed  out  that  his 
behaviour  from  first  to  last  had  been  the  reverse  of  cour- 
teous to  herself  and  her  friends,  and  she  suggested  that 
he  had,  perhaps,  scarcely  realised  the  importance  of  main- 
taining the  family  dignity  in  the  eyes  of  Pendragon. 
You  remember  his  continual  absences  and  the  queer 
friendships  that  he  formed.  She  suggested  that  he  should 
modify  these,  and  take  a  little  more  interest  in  the  circle 
to  which  we,  ourselves,  belong.  Surely  there  is  nothing 
objectionable  in  all  this;  indeed,  I  should  have  thought 
that  he  would  have  been  grateful  for  her  advice.  But  no 
— he  fired  up  in  the  most  absurd  manner,  accused  us  of 
unfairness  and  prejudice,  declared  his  intention  of  going 
his  own  way,  and  gave  us  all  his  conge.  In  fact,  he  was 
extremely  rude  to  my  aunt,  and  I  cannot  forgive  him  for 
some  of  the  things  that  he  said.  His  attitude  has  been 
absurd  from  the  first,  and  I  cannot  see  that  we  could  have 
acted  otherwise,  but  the  situation  is  now  peculiar,  and 
what  will  come  of  it  I  don't  know.  I  must  dress  for 
dinner — I  am  curious  to  see  whether  he  will  appear — he 
was  out  for  lunch.  Let  me  have  a  line  if  you  have  a 
spare  moment.     I  scarcely  know  how  to  act.     Yours, 

EOBBKT    TkOJAN. 


23  SouTHWicK  Crescent,  W., 
October  14,  1906. 
Dear  Eobin, — In  furious  haste,  am  just  off  and  have 
really  no  time  for  anything.     I  am  more  sorry  than  I  cau 


162  THE  WOODEK  HORSE 

say  to  hear  your  news.  I  must  confess  that  I  had  feared 
something  of  the  kind;  matters  seemed  working  to  a 
climax  when  I  was  with  you.  As  to  advice,  it  is  almost 
impossible ;  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say,  it  is  so  hard 
for  me  to  judge  of  all  the  circumstances.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  your  father  can  have  had  no  warrant  for  the 
course  that  he  took.  Of  course,  one  is  naturally  chary  of 
delivering  judgTnent  in  such  a  case,  but  it  was,  obviously, 
his  duty  to  adapt  himself  to  his  environment.  He  cannot 
blame  you  for  reminding  him  of  that  fact.  Out  of  loyalty 
to  your  aunt,  I  do  not  see  that  you  can  do  anything  until 
he  has  apologised.  But  I  will  think  of  the  matter  further, 
and  will  write  to  you  from  abroad.  In  great  haste,  your 
friend, 

Lancelot  Eandal. 

"  The  Flutes,"  Pendeagon,  Cornwajll, 
October  13,  1906. 
Dear  Miss  Feverel, — I  must  apologise  for  forcing  you 
to  realise  once  more  my  existence.  Any  reminder  must 
necessarily  be  painful  after  our  last  meeting,  but  I  am 
writing  this  to  request  the  return  of  all  other  reminders 
of  our  acquaintance  that  you  may  happen  to  possess;  I 
enclose  the  locket,  the  ring,  your  letters,  and  the  tie  that 
you  worked.  We  discussed  this  matter  the  other  day,  but 
I  cannot  believe  that  you  will  still  hold  to  a  determination 
that  can  serve  no  purpose,  except  perhaps  to  embitter  feel- 
ings on  both  sides.  From  what  I  have  known  of  you  I  can- 
not believe  that  you  are  indulging  motives  of  revenge — but, 
otherwise,  I  must  confess  that  I  am  at  a  loss.  Expecting 
to  receive  the  letters  by  return,  I  am,  yours  truly, 

Eobekt  Trojait'. 

9  Seaview  Terrace,  Pendragon,  Cornwall,, 
October  14,  1906. 
Dear  Mr.   Trojan, — Thank  you  for  the  locket,   the 
ring,  and  the  letters  which  I  have  received.     I  regret  that 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  163 

I  must  decline  to  part  with  the  letters;  surely  it  is  not 
strange  that  I  should  wish  to  keep  them.     Yours  truly, 

Dahlia  Feverel. 

"  The.  Flutes," 

October  15,  1906. 
What  do  you  mean?  You  have  no  right  to  them. 
They  are  mine.  I  wrote  them.  You  serve  no  purpose  by 
keeping  them.  Please  return  them  at  once — by  return. 
I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve  this.  Unless  you  return 
them,  I  shall  know  that  you  are  merely  an  intriguing — ; 
no,  I  don't  mean  that.  Please  send  them  back.  Suppose 
they  should  be  seen  ?     In  haste, 

R.  T. 

9  Seavibw  Teeilace,  Pendeagon,  Coenwall, 
October,  15,  1906. 
My  decision  is  unalterable. 

D.  F. 

But  Dahlia  sat  in  the  dreary  little  drawing-room  watch- 
ing the  grey  sea  with  a  white  face  and  hard,  staring  eyes- 
She  had  sat  there  all  day.  She  thought  that  soon  she 
would  go  mad.  She  had  not  slept  since  her  last  meeting 
with  Eobin ;  she  had  scarcely  eaten — she  was  too  tired  to 
think. 

The  days  had  been  interminable.  At  first  she  had 
waited,  expecting  that  he  would  come  back.  A  hundred 
impulses  had  been  at  work.  At  first  she  had  thought  that 
she  would  go  and  tell  him  that  she  had  not  meant  what 
she  said;  she  w^ould  persuade  him  to  come  back.  She 
would  offer  him  the  letters  and  tell  him  that  she  had 
meant  nothing — they  had  been  idle  words.  But  then  she 
remembered  some  of  the  things  that  he  had  said,  some  of 


164  THE  WOODEIT  HOESE 

the  stones  that  lie  had  flung.  She  was  not  good  enough 
for  him  or  his  family;  she  had  no  right  to  expect  that 
an  alliance  was  ever  possible.  His  family  despised  her. 
And  then  her  thoughts  turned  from  Eobin  to  his  family. 
She  had  seen  Clare  often  enough  and  had  always  disliked 
her.  But  now  she  hated  her  so  that  she  could  have  gladly 
killed  her.  It  was  at  her  door  that  she  laid  all  the 
change  in  Eobin  and  her  own  misery.  She  felt  that  she 
would  do  anything  in  the  world  to  cause  her  pain.  She 
brooded  over  it  in  the  terribly  shabby  little  room  with  her 
face  turned  to  the  sea.  How  could  she  hurt  her  ?  There 
were  the  others,  too — the  rest  of  the  family — all  except 
Eobin's  father  who  was,  she  felt  instinctively,  different. 
She  thought  that  he  would  not  have  acted  in  that  way. 
And  then  her  thoughts  turned  back  to  Eobin,  and  for  a 
moment  she  fancied  that  she  hated  him,  and  then  she 
(j:new  that  she  still  loved  him — and  she  stared  at  the  grey 
sea  with  death  in  her  heart  and  a  dull,  sombre  confusion 
in  her  brain.  ISTo,  she  did  not  hate  Eobin,  she  did  not 
really  want  to  hurt  him.  How  could  she,  when  they  had 
had  those  wonderful  months  together  ?  Those  months 
that  seemed  such  centuries  and  centuries  away.  But, 
nevertheless,  she  kept  the  letters.  Mrs.  Feverel  had 
talked  about  them,  had  advised  her  to  keep  them.  She 
did  not  mean  to  do  anything  very  definite  with  them — 
she  could  not  look  ahead  very  far — but  she  would  keep 
them  for  a  little. 

When  she  had  seen  Eobin's  handwriting  again,  it  had 
been  almost  more  than  she  could  bear.  For  some  time 
she  had  been  unable  to  tear  open  the  envelope  and  specu- 
lated, confusedly,  on  the  contents.  Perhaps  he  had  re- 
pented.    She  judged  him  by  her  own  days  and  nights  of 


THE  WOODE^^  HOESE  165 

titter  misery  and  knew  that,  had  it  been  herself,  they 
would  have  driven  her  back  crying  to  his  feet.  Perhaps 
it  was  to  ask  for  another  interview.  That  she  would 
refuse.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  endure  another  such 
meeting  as  their  last;  if  he  were  to  come  to  her  without 
warning,  to  surprise  her  suddenly — her  heart  beat  furi- 
ously at  the  thought,  but  the  deliberate  meeting  merely 
for  the  purpose  of  his  own  advantage — no ! 

She  opened  the  letter,  read  the  cold  lines,  and  knew 
that  it  was  utterly  the  end.  She  had  fancied,  at  their  last 
meeting,  that  her  love,  like  a  bird  shot  through  the  heart, 
had  fallen  at  his  feet,  dead;  then,  after  those  days  of  his 
absence,  his  figure  had  grown  in  her  sight,  glorified,  re- 
splendent, and  love  had  revived  again — now,  with  this 
letter  she  knew  that  it  was  over.  She  did  not  cry,  she 
scarcely  moved.  She  watched  the  sea,  with  the  letter  on 
her  lap,  and  knew  that  a  new  Dahlia  Eeverel,  a  woman 
who  would  trafiic  no  longer  with  sentiment,  who  knew  the 
world  for  what  it  was — a  hard,  merciless  prison  with 
fiends  for  its  gaolers — had  sprung  to  birth. 

She  replied  to  him  and  showed  her  mother  her  answer. 
She  scarcely  listened  to  Mrs.  Feverel's  comments  and  went 
about  her  daily  affairs,  quietly,  without  confusion.  She 
saw  herself  and  Eobin  like  figures  in  a  play — she  ap- 
plauded the  comedy  and  the  tragedy  left  her  unmoved. 
Eobin  Trojan  had  much  to  answer  for. 

He  read  her  second  letter  with  dismay.  He  had  spent 
the  day  in  solitary  confinement  in  his  room,  turning  the 
situation  round  and  round  in  his  mind,  lost  in  a  perfect 
labyrinth  of  suggested  remedies,  none  of  which  afforded 
him  any  outlet.  The  thought  of  exposure  was  horrible; 
anything  must  be  done  to  avoid  that — disgrace  to  himself 


/ 


166  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

was  bad  enough;  to  be  held  up  for  laughter  before  his 

Cambridge  friends,  Randal,  his  London  acquaintances — 

but  disgrace  to  the  family!     That  was  the  awful  thing! 

From  his  cradle  this  creed  of  the  family  had  been 

)  taught  him;  he  had  learnt  it  so  thoroughly  that  he  had 

J    grown  to  test  everything  by  that  standard;   it  was  his 

\  father's  disloyalty  to  that  creed  that  had  roused  the  son's 

anger — and  now,  behold,  the  son  was  sinning  more  than 

the  father !     It  was  truly  ironic  that,  three  days  after  his 

attacking  a  member  of  the  family  for  betraying  the  family, 

he  himself  should  be  guilty  of  far  greater  betrayal !     How 

topsy-turvy  the  world  seemed,  and  what  was  to  be  done  ? 

The  brevity  and  conciseness  of  Dahlia's  last  letter  left 
him  in  no  doubt  as  to  her  intentions.  Breach  of  Promise ! 
The  letters  would  be  read  in  court,  would  be  printed  in 
the  newspajDers  for  all  the  world  to  see.  With  youth's 
€asy  grasping  of  eternity,  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  dis- 
^ace  would  be  for  ever.  Beddoes'  "  Death's  Jest-book  " 
was  lying  open  on  his  knee.     Wolfram's  song — 

"  Old  Adam,  the  carrion  crow, 
The  old  crow  of  Cairo; 
He  sat  in  the  shower,  and  let  it  flow 
Under  his  tail  and  over  his  crest; 
And  through  every  feather 
Leaked  the  wet  weather; 
And  the  bough  swtmg  under  his  nest; 
For  his  beak  it  was  heavy  with  marrow. 
Is  that  the  wind  dying?     Oh  no; 
It's  only  two  devils,  that  blow 
Through  a  nnirderer's  bones,  to  and  fro. 
In  the  ghost's  moonshine  " — 

had  always  seemed  to  him  the  most  madly  sinister  verse 
in  English  literature.     It  had  been  read  to  him  by  Randal 


THE  W00DE:N'  HOESE  1G7 

at  Cambridge  and  liad  had  a  curious  fascination  for  him 
from  the  first.  He  had  found  that  the  little  bookseller  at 
Worms  had  known  it  and  had  indeed  claimed  Beddoes 
for  a  German — now  it  seemed  to  warn  him  vaguely  of 
impending  disaster. 

He  did  not  see  that  he  himself  could  act  any  further 
in  the  matter;  she  would  not  see  him  and  writing  was 
iTseless.  And  yet  to  leave  the  matter  uncertain,  waiting 
for  the  blow  to  fall,  with  no  knowledge  of  the  movements 
in  the  other  camp,  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  He  must 
do  something.  . 

The  moment  had  arrived  when  advice  must  be  taken — 
but  from  whom  ?  His  father  was  out  of  the  question. 
It  was  three  days  since  the  explosion,  and  there  was  an 
armed  truce.  He  had,  in  spite  of  himself,  admired  his 
father's  conduct  during  the  last  three  days,  and  he  was 
surprised  to  find  that  it  was  his  aunt  and  uncle  rather 
than  his  father  who  had  failed  to  carry  off  the  situation. 
He  refused  as  yet  to  admit  it  to  himself,  but  the  three 
of  them,  his  aunt,  his  uncle,  and  himself,  had  seemed  al- 
most frightened.  His  father  was  another  person;  stern, 
cold,  unfailingly  polite,  suddenly  apparently  possessed  of 
those  little  courtesies  in  which  he  had  seemed  before  so 
singularly  lacking.  There  had  been  conversation  of  a 
kind  at  meals,  and  it  had  always  been  his  father  who  had 
filled  awkward  pauses  and  avoided  difficult  moments. 
The  knowledge,  too,  that  his  father  would,  in  a  few 
months'  time,  be  head  of  the  house,  was  borne  in  upon 
him  with  new  force ;  it  might  be  unpleasant,  but  it  would 
not,  as  he  had  formerly  fancied,  be  ludicrous.  A  sign 
of  his  changed  attitude  was  the  fact  that  he  rather  re- 


168  THE  WOODEN"  HORSE 

sented  Eandal's  letter  and  wished  a  little  that  lie  had  not 
taken  him  into  his  confidence. 

J^evertheless,  to  ask  advice  of  his  father  was  impossible. 
He  must  speak  to  his  uncle  and  aunt.  How  hard  this 
would  be  only  he  himself  knew.  He  had  never  in  their 
eyes  failed,  in  any  degree,  towards  the  family  honour. 
Erom  whatever  side  the  House  might  be  attacked,  it  would 
not  be  through  him.  There  was  nothing  in  his  past  life, 
they  thought,  at  which  they  would  not  care  to  look. 

He  realised,  too,  Clare's  love  for  him.  He  had  known 
from  very  early  days  that  he  counted  for  everything  in 
her  life;  that  her  faith  in  the  family  centred  in  his  own 
honour  and  that  her  hopes  for  the  family  were  founded 
completely  in  his  own  progress — and  now  he  must  tell 
her  this. 

He  could  not,  he  knew,  have  chosen  a  more  imfortu- 
nate  time.  The  House  had  already  been  threatened  by 
the  conduct  of  the  father;  it  was  now  to  totter  under 
blows  dealt  by  the  son.  The  first  crisis  had  been  severe, 
this  would  be  infinitely  more  so.  He  hated  himself  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  and,  in  doing  so,  began  for  the 
first  time  to  realise  himself  a  little. 

Well,  he  must  speak  to  them  and  ask  them  what  was 
to  be  done,  and  the  sooner  it  w^as  over  the  better.  He  put 
the  Beddoes  back  into  the  shelf,  and  went  to  the  windows. 
It  was  already  dark;  lights  twinkled  in  the  bay,  and  a 
line  of  white  breakers  flashed  and  vanished,  keeping  time, 
it  seemed,  with  the  changing  gleam  of  the  lighthouse  far 
out  to  sea.  His  own  room  was  dark,  save  for  the  glow 
of  the  fire.  They  would  be  at  tea;  probably  his  father 
would  not  be  there — the  present  would  be  a  good  time  to 


THE  WOODEN"  HORSE  169 

choose.  He  pulled  his  courage  together  and  went  down- 
stairs. 

As  he  had  expected,  Garrett  was  having  tea  with  Clare 
in  her  own  room — the  Castle  of  Intimacy,  as  Eandal  had 
once  called  it.  Garrett  was  reading;  Clare  was  sitting 
by  the  fire,  thinking. 

"  She  will  soon  have  more  to  think  about,"  thought 
Hobin  wretchedly. 

She  looked  up  as  he  came  in.  "  Ah,  Robin,  that's 
splendid!  I  was  just  going  to  send  up  for  you.  Come 
and  sit  here  and  talk  to  me.  I've  hardly  seen  you  to- 
day." 

She  had  been  very  affectionate  during  the  last  three 
days — rather  too  affectionate,  Robin  thought.  He  liked 
her  better  when  she  was  less  demonstrative. 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  the  afternoon  ? " 

"  In  my  room.     I've  been  busy." 

"  Tea  ?  You  don't  mind  it  strong,  do  you,  because  it's 
been  here  a  good  long  time  ?  Gingerbread  cake  especially 
for  you." 

But  gingerbread  cake  wasn't  in  the  least  attractive. 
Beddoes  suited  him  much  better: — 

"  Is  that  the  wind  dying?     Oh  no; 
It's  only  two  devils,  that  blow 
Through  a  murderer's  bones  to  ajid  fro, 
In  the  ghost's  moonshine." 


"  Do  you  know  Beddoes,  aunt  ?  " 
"  No,  dear.     What  kind  of  thing  is  it  ?     Poetry  ?  " 
"Yes.     You  wouldn't  like  it,  though — only  I've  been 
reading  him  this  afternoon.     He  suited  my  mood." 


170  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

"  Boys  of  your  age  shouldn't  have  moods."  This  from 
Garrett.     "  I  never  had." 

Robin  took  his  tea  without  answering,  and  sat  down  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  fire  to  his  aunt.  How  was  he  to 
begin  ?  What  was  he  to  say  ?  There  followed  an  awful 
pause — life  seemed  to  have  been  full  of  pauses  lately. 

Clare  was  watching  him  anxiously.  How  had  his 
father's  outbreak  affected  him  ?  She  was  afraid,  from 
little  things  that  she  had  seen,  that  he  had  been  influenced. 
Harry  had  been  so  different  those  last  three  days — she 
could  not  understand  it.  She  watched  him  eagerly,  hun- 
grily. Why  was  he  not  still  the  baby  that  she  could  take 
on  her  knees  and  kiss  and  sentimentalise  over.  He,  too, 
she  fancied,  had  been  different  during  these  last  days. 

"  More  tea,  Eobin  ?  You'd  better — it's  a  long  while 
before  dinner." 

"  ^o,  thanks,  aunt.  I — that  is — well,  I've  something 
I  wanted  to  say." 

He  turned  round  in  his  chair  and  faced  the  fire.  He 
would  rather  not  look  at  her  whilst  he  was  speaking. 
Garrett  put  down  his  book  and  looked  up.  Was  there 
going  to  be  more  worry?  What  had  happened  lately  to 
the  world  ?  It  seemed  to  have  lost  all  proper  respect  for 
the  Trojan  position.  He  could  not  understand  it.  Clare 
drew  her  breath  sharply.  Her  fears  thronged  about  her, 
like  shadows  in  the  firelight — what  was  it  ?  .  .  .  .  Was 
it  Harry  ? 

"  What  about,  Robin  ?     Is  anything  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Why,  no — nothing  really — it's  only — that  is — Oh, 
dash  it  all — it's  awfully  difficult." 

There  was  another  silence.  The  ticking  of  the  clock 
drove  Robin  into  further  speech. 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  lYl 

"Well — I've  made  a  bit  of  a  mess.  I've  been  rather 
a  fool  and  I  want  your  advice." 

Another  pause,  but  no  assistance  save  a  cold  "  Well  ?  " 
from  Garrett. 

"  You  see  it  was  at  Cambridge,  last  summer.  I  was 
an  awful  fool,  I  know,  but  I  really  didn't  know  how  far 
it  was  going  until — well,  until  afterwards " 

"Until— after  what?"  said  Garrett.  "Would  you 
mind  being  a  little  clearer,  Eobin  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  was  a  girl."  Kobin  stopped.  It  sounded 
so  horrible,  spoken  like  that  in  cold  blood.  He  did  not 
dare  to  look  at  his  aunt,  but  he  wondered  what  her  face 
was  like.  He  pulled  desperately  at  his  tie,  and  hurried 
on.  "  Nothing  very  bad,  you  know.  I  meant,  at  first, 
anyhow — I  met  her  at  another's  man's — Grant  of  Clare — 
quite  a  good  chap,  and  he  gave  a  picnic — canaders  and 
things  up  the  river.  We  had  a  jolly  afternoon  and  she 
seemed  awfully  nice  and — her  mother  wasn't  there. 
Then — after  that — I  saw  a  lot  of  her.  Every  one  does 
at  Cambridge — I  mean  see  girls  and  all  that  kind  of  thing 
• — and  I  didn't  think  anything  of  it — and  she  really  seemed 
awfully  nice  then.  There  isn't  much  to  do  at  Cambridge, 
except  that  sort  of  thing — really.  Then,  after  term,  I 
came  down  here,  and  I  began  to  write.  I'm  afraid  I 
was  a  bit  silly,  but  I  didn't  know  it  then,  and  I  used  to 
write  her  letters  pretty  often,  and  she  answered  them. 
And — well,  you  know  the  sort  of  thing,  Uncle  Garrett — 
I  thought  I  loved  her " 

At  this  climax,  Eobin  came  to  a  pause,  and  hoped  that 
they  would  help  him,  but  they  said  no  word  until,  at  last, 
Garrett  said  impatiently,  "  Go  on." 

"Well,"   continued  Eobin  desperately,   "that's  really 


172  THE  WOODEK  HORSE 

all — "  knowing,  however,  that  he  had  not  yet  arrived  at 
the  point  of  the  story.  "  She — and  her  mother — came 
down  to  live  here — and  then,  somehow,  I  didn't  like  her 
quite  so  much.  It  seemed  different  down  here,  and  her 
mother  was  horrid.  I  began  to  see  it  differently,  and  at 
last,  one  night,  I  told  her  so.  Of  course,  I  thought, 
naturally,  that  she  would  understand.  But  she  didn't 
— her  mother  was  horrid — and  she  made  a  scene — it  was 
all  very  unpleasant."  Robin  was  dragging  his  handker- 
chief between  his  fingers,  and  looking  imploringly  at 
the  fire.  "  Then  I  went  and  saw  her  again  and  asked 
her  for — my  letters — she  said  she'd  keep  them — and  I'm 
afraid  she  may  use  them — and — well,  that's  all,"  he 
finished  lamely. 

He  thought  that  hours  of  terrible  silence  followed  his 
speech.  He  sat  motionless  in  his  chair  waiting  for  their 
words.  He  was  rather  glad  now  that  he  had  spoken.  It 
had  been  a  relief  to  unburden  himself;  for  so  many  days 
he  had  only  had  his  own  thoughts  and  suggestions  to 
apply  to  the  situation.  But  he  was  afraid  to  look  at  his 
aunt. 

"  You  young  fool,"  at  last  from  Garrett.  "  Who  is 
the  girl?" 

"  A  Miss  Feverel — she  lives  with  her  mother  at  Sea- 
view  Terrace — there  is  no  father." 

"Miss  Feverel?  What!  That  girl!  You  wrote  to 
her!     You " 

At  last  his  aunt  had  spoken.  He  had  never  heard  her 
speak  like  that  before — the  "  You !  "  was  a  cry  of  horror. 
She  suddenly  got  up  and  went  over  to  him.  She  bent  over 
him  where  he  sat,  with  head  lowered,  and  shook  him  by 
the  shoulder. 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  1Y3 

"  Eobin !  It  can't  be  true — joii  haven't  written  to 
that  girl !     Not  love-letters !     It   is   incredible !  " 

"  It  is  true — "  he  said,  looking  up.  "  Don't  look  at 
me  like  that,  Aunt  Clare.  It  isn't  so  bad — other  fel- 
lows— "  but  then  he  was  ashamed  and  stopped.  He  would 
leave  his  defence  alone. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Garrett.     "  All  you  have  done, . 
I  mean?     You  haven't  injured  the  girl?" 

"  I  swear  that's  all,"  Robin  said  eagerly.  "  I  meant 
no  harm  by  it.  I  wrote  the  letters  without  thinking. 
I " 

Clare  stood  leaning  on  the  mantelpiece,  her  head  be- 
tween her  hands. 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  she  said.  "  It  isn't  like  you 
— not  a  bit.     That  girl  and  you — why,  it's  incredible !  " 

"  That's  only  because  you  had  your  fancy  idea  of 
him,  Clare,"  said  Garrett.  "  We'd  better  pass  the  lamen- 
tation stage  and  decide  what's  to  be  done." 

For  once,  Garrett  seemed  practical;  he  was  pleased 
with  himself  for  being  so.  It  had  suddenly  occurred  to 
him  that  he  was  the  only  person  who  could  really  deal 
with  the  situation.  Clare  w^as  a  woman,  Harry  was  out 
of  the  question,  Eobin  was  a  boy. 

"  Have  vou  spoken  to  vour  father  ? "  he  asked. 

"  No.  Of  course  not !  "  Eobin  answered,  rather  fiercely. 
"  How  could  I  ?  " 

Clare  went  back  to  her  chair.  "  That  girl !  But, 
Eobin,  she's  plain — quite — and  her  manners,  her  mother 
— everything  impossible !  " 

It  was  still  incredible  that  Eobin,  the  work  of  her 
hands  as  it  were,  into  whom  she  had  poured  all  things 
that  were  lovely  and  of  good  report,  could  have  made  love 


174  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

to  an  ordinary  girl  of  the  middle  classes — a  vulgar  girl 
with  a  still  more  vulgar  mother. 

But  in  spite  of  her  vulgarity  she  was  jealous  of  her. 
"  You  don't  care  for  her  any  longer,  Eobin  ?  " 

"  Now  ? — oh  no — not  for  a  long  time — I  don't  think 
I  ever  did  really.  I  can't  think  how  I  was  ever  such 
a  fool." 

"  She  still  threatens  Breach  of  Promise,"  said  Garrett, 
whose  mind  was  slowly  working  as  to  the  best  means  of 
proving  his  practical  utility.  "  That's  the  point,  of  course. 
That  the  letters  are  there  and  that  we  have  got  to  get 
them  back.  What  kind  of  letters  were  they?  Did  you 
actually  give  her  hopes  ?  " 

Eobin  blushed.  "  Yes,  I'm  afraid  I  did — as  well  as  I 
can  remember,  and  judging  by  her  answers.  I  said  the 
usual  sort  of  things — "  He  paused.  It  was  best,  he 
felt,  to  leave  it  vague. 

But  Clare  had  scarcely  arrived  at  the  danger  of  it  yet — 
the  danger  to  the  House.  Her  present  thought  was  of 
Bobin;  that  she  must  alter  her  feelings  about  him,  take 
him  from  his  pedestal — a  Trojan  who  could  make  love  to 
any  kind  of  girl! 

"  I  can't  think  of  it  now,"  she  said ;  "  it's  confusing. 
We  must  see  what's  to  be  done.  We'll  talk  about  it 
some  other  time.     It's  hard  to  see  just  at  present." 

Garrett  looked  puzzled.  "  It's  a  bit  of  a  mess,"  he 
said.  "  But  we'll  see — "  and  left  the  room  with  an  air 
of  importance. 

Eobin  turned  to  go,  and  then  walked  over  to  his  aunt, 
and  put  his  hand  on  her  sleeve. 

"  Don't    think    me    such    a    rotter,"    he    said.     "  I'm 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  175 

awfully  sorry — it's  about  you  that  I  care  most — but  I've 
learnt  a  lesson ;  I'll  never  do  anything  like  that  again." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  and  took  his  hand  in  hers. 

"  Why,  old  boy,  no.  Of  course  I  was  a  little  sur- 
prised. But  I  don't  mind  very  much  if  you  care  for  me 
in  the  same  way.  That's  all  I  have,  Robin — your  caring ; 
and  I  don't  think  it  matters  very  much  what  you  do,  if 
I  still  have  that." 

"  Of  course  you  have,"  he  said,  and  bent  down  and 
kissed  her.     Then  he  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 

* '  T  'M  worse  to-day,"  said  Sir  Jeremy,  looking  at  Harry, 

-■•    "  and  I'll  be  off  under  a  month." 

He  seemed  rather  pathetic — the  brave  look  had  gone 
from  his  eyes,  and  his  face  and  hands  were  more  shrivelled 
than  ever.  He  gave  the  impression  of  cowering  in  bed 
as  though  wishing  to  avoid  a  blow.  Harry  was  with  him 
continually  now,  and  the  old  man  was  never  happy  if  his 
son  was  not  there.  He  rambled  at  times  and  fancied 
himself  back  in  his  youth  again.  Harry  had  found  his 
father's  room  a  refuge  from  the  family,  and  he  sat,  hour 
after  hour,  watching  the  old  man  asleep,  thinking  of  his 
own  succession  and  puzzling  over  the  hopeless  tangle  that 
seemed  to  surround  him.  How  to  get  out  of  it!  He 
had  no  longer  any  thought  of  turning  his  back;  he  had 
gone  too  far  for  that  and  they  would  think  it  cowardice, 
but  things  couldn't  remain  as  they  were.  What  would 
come  out  of  it  ? 

He  had,  as  Eobin  had  said,  changed.  The  effect  of  the 
explosion  had  been  to  reveal  in  him  qualities  whose  very 
existence  he  had  formerly  never  expected.  He  even  found, 
strangely  enough,  a  kind  of  joy  in  the  affair.  It  was  like 
playing  a  game.  He  had  made,  he  felt,  the  right  move 
and  was  in  the  stronger  position.  In  earlier  days  he  had 
never  been  able  to  quarrel  with  any  one.  Whenever  such 
a  thing  had  happened,  he  had  been  the  first  to  make  over- 
tures; he  hated  the  idea  of  an  enemy,  his  happiness  de- 

176 


THE  WOODEN"  HOESE  111 

pended  on  his  friends,  and  sometimes  now,  when  he  saw 
K  his  own  people's  hostility,  he  was  near  surrender.  But 
I  the  memory  of  his  sister's  words  had  held  him  firm,  and 
now  he  was  beginning  to  feel  in  tune  with  the  situation. 

He  watched  Eobin  furtively  at  times  and  wondered 
how  he  was  taking  it  all.  Sometimes  he  fancied  that  he 
caught  glances  that  pointed  to  Eobin's  own  desire  to  see 
how  he  was  taking  it.  Once  they  had  passed  on  the 
stairs,  and  for  a  moment  they  had  both  paused  as  though 
they  would  speak.  It  had  been  all  Harry  could  do  to 
restrain  himself  from  flinging  his  arms  on  to  his  son's 
shoulders  and  shaking  him  for  a  fool  and  then  forcing 
him  into  surrender,  but  he  had  held  himself  back  and 
they  had  passed  on  without  a  word.  , 

After  all,  what  children  they  all  were!  That's  what 
/  it  came  to — children  playing  a  game  that  they  did  not 
I   understand ! 

"  I  wish  it  would  end,"  said  Sir  Jeremy;  "  I'm  getting 
damned  sick  of  it.  Why  can't  he  take  you  out  straight 
away,  and  be  done  with  it?  Do  you  know,  Harry,  my 
boy,  I  think  I'm  frightened.  It's  lying  here  thinking  of 
it.  I  never  had  much  imagination — it  isn't  a  Trojan 
habit,  but  it  grows  on  one.  I  fancy — well,  what's  the 
use  o'  talking  ? "  and  he  sank  back  into  his  pillows  again. 

The  room  was  dark  save  for  the  leaping  light  of  the 
fire.  It  was  almost  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  but  Harry 
sat  there,  forgetting  time  and  place  in  the  unchanging 
question,  How  would  it  all  work  out  ? 

"  By  Gad,  it's  Tom !  Hullo,  old  man,  I  was  just  think- 
ing of  you.  Comin'  round  to  Horrocks'  to-night  for  a 
game?  Supper  at  Galiani's — but  it's  damned  cold.  I 
don't  know  where  that  sun's  got  to.     I've  been  wandering 


178  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

up  and  down  the  street  all  day  and  I  cant  j5nd  the  place. 
I've  forgotten  the  number — I  can't  remember  whether  it 
was  23  or  33,  and  I  keep  getting  into  that  passage. 
There  I  am  again !  Bring  a  light,  old  man — it's  so 
dark.  What's  that?  Who's  there?  Can't  you  answer? 
Dam  you,  come  out,  you — "  He  sat  up  in  bed,  quiver- 
ing all  over.     Harry  put  his  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  It's  all  right  father,"  he  said.  "  No  one's  here — 
only  myself." 

"  Ugh !  I  was  dreaming — "  he  answered,  lying  down 
again.  "  Let's  have  some  light — not  that  electric  glare. 
Candles!" 

Harry  was  sitting  in  the  corner  by  the  bed  away  from 
the  fire.  He  was  about  to  rise  and  move  the  candles  into 
a  clump  on  the  mantelpiece  when  there  was  a  tap  on  the 
door  and  some  one  came  in.     It  was  Eobin. 

"  Grandfather,  are  you  awake  ?  Aunt  Clare  told  me 
to  look  in  on  my  way  up  to  dress  and  see  if  you  wanted 
anything  ?  " 

The  firelight  was  on  his  face.  He  looked  very  young 
as  he  stood  there  by  the  bed.  His  face  was  flushed  in 
the  light  of  the  fire.  Harry's  heart  beat  furiously,  but 
he  made  no  movement  and  said  no  word. 

Eobin  bent  over  the  bed  to  catch  his  grandfather's  an- 
swer, and  he  saw  his  father. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered.  "  I  didn't  know 
— "  He  waited  for  a  moment  as  though  he  were  going  to 
say  something,  or  expected  his  father  to  speak.  Then 
he  turned  and  left  the  room. 

"  Let's  have  the  candles,"  said  Sir  Jeremy  as  though 
he  had  not  noticed  the  interruption,  and  Harry  lit  them. 

The  old  man  sank  off  to  sleep  again,  and  Harry  fell 


THE  WOODE:^r  HOESE  179 

back  into  his  own  gloomy  thoughts  once  more.  They 
were  always  meeting  like  that,  and  on  each  occasion  there 
was  need  for  the  same  severe  self-control.  He  had  to 
remind  himself  continually  of  their  treatment  of  him, 
of  Robin's  coldness  and  reserve.  At  times  he  cursed 
himself  for  a  fool,  and  then  again  it  seemed  the  only 
way  out  of  the  labyrinth. 

His  love  for  his  son  had  changed  its  character.  He 
had  no  longer  that  desire  for  equality  of  which  he  had 
made,  at  first,  so  much.  ISTo,  the  two  generations  could 
never  see  in  line ;  he  must  not  expect  that.  But  he  thought 
of  Eobin  as  a  boy — as  a  boy  who  had  made  blunders  and 
would  make  others  again,  and  would  at  last  turn  to  his 
father  as  the  only  person  who  could  help  him.  He  had 
fancied  once  or  twice  that  he  had  already  begun  to  turn. 

Well,  he  would  be  there  if  Robin  wanted  him.  He 
had  decided  to  speak  to  Mary  about  it.  Her  clear  com- 
monsense  point  of  view  seemed  to  dive,  like  the  sun, 
through  the  mists  of  his  obscurity ;  she  always  saw  straight 
through  things — never  round  them — and  her  practical 
mind  arrived  at  a  quicker  solution  than  was  possible  for 
his  rather  romantic,  quixotic  sentiment. 

"You  are  too  fond  of  discerning  pleasant  motives," 
she  had  once  said  to  him.  "  I  daresay  they  are  all  right, 
but  it  takes  such  a  time  to  see  them." 

He  had  not  seen  her  since  the  outbreak,  and  he  was 
rather  anxious  as  to  her  opinion ;  but  the  main  thing  was 
to  be  with  her.  Since  last  Sunday  he  had  been,  he  con- 
fessed to  himself,  absurd.  He  had  behaved  more  in  the 
manner  of  a  boy  of  nineteen  than  a  middle-aged  widower 
of  forty-five.  He  had  been  suddenly  afraid  of  the  Bethels 
— going  to  tea  had  seemed  such  an  obvious  advance  on  his 


180  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

part  that  he  had  shrunk  from  it,  and  he  had  even  avoided 
Bethel  lest  that  gentleman  should  imagine  that  he  was 
on  the  edge  of  a  proposal  for  his  daughter's  hand.  He 
thought  that  all  the  world  must  know  of  it,  and  he 
blushed  like  a  girl  at  the  thought  of  its  being  laid  bare 
for  Pendragon  to  laugh  and  gibe  at.  It  was  so  precious, 
so  wonderful,  that  he  kept  it,  like  a  rich  piece  of  jewellery, 
deep  in  a  secret  drawer,  over  which  he  watched  delight- 
edly, almost  humorously,  secure  in  the  delicious  knowl- 
edge that  he  alone  had  the  key.  He  wandered  out  at 
night,  like  a  foolish  schoolboy,  to  watch  the  lamp  in  her 
room — that  dull  circle  of  golden  light  against  the  blind 
seemed  to  draw  him  with  it  into  the  intimacy  and  security 
of  her  room. 

On  one  of  his  solitary  afternoon  walks  he  suddenly 
came  upon  her.  He  had  gone,  as  he  so  often  did,  over  ^ 
the  moor  to  the  Eour  Stones;  he  chose  that  place  partly 
because  of  the  Stones  themselves  and  partly  because  of 
the  wonderful  view.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  whole 
heart  of  Cornwall — its  mystery,  its  eternal  sameness,  its 
rejection  of  everything  that  was  modern  and  ephemeral, 
the  pathos  of  old  deserted  altars  and  past  gods  searching 
for  their  old-time  worshippers — was  centred  there. 

The  Stones  themselves  stood  on  the  hill,  against  the 
sky,  gaunt,  grey,  menacing,  a  landmark  for  all  the  country- 
side. The  moor  ran  here  into  a  valley  between  two  lines 
of  hill,  a  cup  bounded  on  three  sides  by  the  hills  and  on 
the  fourth  by  the  sea.  In  the  spring  it  flamed,  a  bowl 
of  fire,  with  the  gorse;  now  it  stood  grim  and  naked  to 
all  the  winds,  blue  in  the  distant  hills,  a  deep  red  to  the 
right,  where  the  plough  had  been,  brown  and  grey  on  the 
moor  itself  running  down  to  the  sea. 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  181 

It  was  full  of  deserted  things,  as  is  ever  the  way  with 
the  true  Cornwall.  On  the  hill  were  the  Stones  sharp 
against  the  sky-line;  lower  down,  in  a  bend  of  the  valley, 
stood  the  ruins  of  a  mine,  the  shaft  and  chimney,  des- 
olately solitary,  looking  like  the  pillars  of  some  ancient 
temple  that  had  been  fashioned  by  uncouth  worshippers. 
In  the  valley  itself  stood  the  stones  of  what  was  once  a 
chapel — built,  perhaps,  for  the  men  of  the  desolate  mine, 
inhabited  now  by  rabbits  and  birds,  its  window  spaces 
where  the  winds  that  swept  the  moor  could  play  their 
eternal,  restless  games. 

On  a  day  of  clouds  there  was  no  colour  on  the  moor, 
but  when  the  sun  was  out  great  bands  of  light  swept  its 
surface,  playing  on  the  Stones  and  changing  them  to 
marble,  striking  colour  from  the  mine  and  filling  the 
chapel  with  gold.  But  the  sun  did  not  reach  that  valley 
on  many  days  when  the  rest  of  the  world  was  alight — 
it  was  as  if  it  respected  the  loneliness  of  its  monuments 
and  the  pathos  of  them. 

Harry  sat  on  the  side  of  the  hill,  below  the  Stones, 
and  watched  the  sea.  At  times  a  mist  came  and  hid  it; 
on  sunny  days,  when  the  sky  was  intensely  blue,  there 
hung  a  dazzling  haze  like  a  golden  veil  and  he  could  only 
tell  that  the  sea  was  there  by  the  sudden  gleam  of  tiny 
white  horses,  flashing  for  a  moment  on  the  mirror  of  blue 
and  shining  through  the  haze;  sometimes  a  gull  swerved 
through  the  air  above  his  head  as  though  a  wave  had 
lost  its  bounds  and,  for  sheer  joy  of  the  beautiful  day, 
had  flung  itself  tossing  and  wheeling  into  the  air. 

But  to-day  was  a  day  of  wind  and  rapidly  sailing  clouds, 
and  myriads  of  white  horses  curved  and  tossed  and  van- 
ished over  the  shifting  colours  of  the  sea;   there  were 


182  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

wonderful  shadows  of  dark  blue  and  purple  and  green  of 
such  depth  that  they  seemed  as  unfathomable  as  marble. 

Suddenly  he  saw  Mary  coming  towards  him.  A  scarf 
— green  like  the  green  of  the  sea — was  tied  round  her 
hat  and  under  her  chin  and  floated  behind  her.  Her 
dress  was  blown  against  her  body,  and  she  walked  as 
though  she  loved  the  battling  with  the  wind.  Her  face 
was  flushed  with  the  struggle,  and  she  had  come  up  to 
him  before  she  saw  that  he  was  there. 

"  'Now,  that's  luck/'  she  said,  laughing,  as  she  sat  down 
beside  him ;  "  I've  been  wanting  to  see  you  ever  since 
yesterday  afternoon,  but  you  seemed  to  have  hidden  your- 
self. It  doesn't  sound  a  very  long  time,  does  it?  But 
I've  something  to  tell  you — rather  important." 

"  What  ? "  He  looked  at  her  and  suddenly  laughed. 
"What  a  splendid  place  for  us  to  meet — its  solitude  is 
almost  unreal." 

"  As  to  solitude,"  she  said  calmly,  pointing  down  the 
valley.  "  There's  Tracy  Corridor ;  it  will  be  all  over 
the  Club  to-night — he's  been  watching  us  for  some  time ;  " 
a  long  thin  youth,  his  head  turned  in  their  direction,  had 
passed  down  the  footpath  towards  its  ruined  chapel,  and 
was  rapidly  vanishing  in  the  direction  of  Pendragon. 

"  Well — let  them,"  said  Harry,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"  You  don't  mind,  do  you  ?  " 

"  N"ot  a  bit,"  she  answered  lightly.  "  They've  dis- 
cussed the  Bethel  family  so  frequently  and  with  such 
vigour  that  a  little  more  or  less  makes  no  difference  what- 
soever. Pendragon  taboo !  we  won't  dishonour  the  sea  by 
such  a  discussion  in  its  sacred  presence." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  tell  me  ?  "  he  asked,  watching 
delightedly  the  colour  of  her  face,  the  stray  curls  that 


THE  WOODEI^r  HOESE  183 

the  wind  dragged  from  discipline  and  played  games  with, 
the  curve  of  her  wrist  as  her  hand  lay  idly  in  her  lap. 

"  Oh,  it'll  keep,"  she  said  quickly.  "  Never  mind 
just  yet.     Tell  me  about  yourself — what's  happened  ?  " 

"  How  did  you  know  that  anything  had  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  one  can  tell,"  she  answered.  "  Besides,  I  have 
felt  sure  that  it  would,  things  couldn't  go  on  just  as  they 
were — "  she  paused  a  moment  and  then  added  seriously, 
"  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  asking  ?  It  seems  a  little 
impertinent — but  that  was  part  of  the  comj)act,  wasn't 
it?" 

"  Why  of  course,"  he  said. 

"  Because,  you  know,"  she  went  on,  "  it's  really  rather 
absurd.  I'm  only  twenty-six,  and  you're — oh !  I  don't 
know  how  old  ! — anyhow  an  elderly  widower  with  a  grovsm- 
up  son ;  and  your  hair's  turning  grey,  but  jt^a-^^irgum- 
stances  not_years  that  make  one  old.  I'm  every  bit  as  old 
as  you  are,  really.  And  I'm  sure  I  shall  give  you  lots 
of  good  advice,  because  you've  no  idea  what  a  truly 
practical  person  I  am.  Only  sometimes  lately  I've  won- 
dered whether  you've  been  a  little  surprised  at  my — our 
flinging  ourselves  into  your  arms  as  we  have  done.  It's 
like  father — he  always  goes  the  whole  way  in  the  first 
minute;  but  it  isn't,  or  at  any  rate  it  oughtn't  to  be,  like 
me!" 

"  You  are,"  he  said  quietly,  "  the  best  friend  I  have 
in  the  world.  How  much  that  means  to  me  I  will  tell 
you  one  da  v." 

"  That's  right,"  she  said  gaily,  settling  herself  down 
with  her  hands  folded  behind  her  head.  "  Now,  for  the 
situation.     I'm  all  attention." 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  the  situation  is  simple  enough 


184  THE  WOODEN"  HORSE 

— it's  the  next  move  that's  puzzling  me.  There  was,  four 
days  ago,  an  explosion — it  was  after  breakfast — a  family 
council — and  I  was  in  a  minority  of  one.  I  was  accused 
of  a  good  many  things — going  down  to  the  Cove,  paying 
no  attention  to  the  Miss  Ponsonbys,  and  so  on.  They 
attacked  me  as  I  thought  unfairly,  and  I  lost  control — on 
the  whole,  I  am  sure,  wisely.  I  wasn't  very  rude,  but  I 
said  quite  plainly  that  I  should  go  my  own  way  in  the 
future  and  would  be  dictated  to  by  no  one.  At  any  rate 
they  understand  that." 

"And  now?" 

"  Ah,  now — well — it's  as  you  would  expect.  We  are 
quite  polite  but  hostile.  Robin  and  I  don't  speak.  The 
new  game — Father  and  Son ;  or  how  to  cut  your  nearest 
relations  with  expedition  and  security."  He  laughed  bit- 
terly. 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  to  shake  him !  "  she  cried,  sitting 
up  and  flinging  her  arms  wide,  as  though  she  were  salut- 
ing the  sea.  "  He  doesn't  know,  he  doesn't  understand ! 
ISTeither  himself  nor  any  one  else.  Oh,  I  will  talk  to  him 
some  day !  But,  do  you  know,"  she  said,  turning  round 
to  him,  "  it's  been  largely  your  fault  from  the  beginning." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  he  answered.  "  If  I  had  only  known 
then  what  I  know  now.  But  how  could  I  ?  How  could 
I  tell  ?  But  I  always  have  been  that  kind  of  man,  all 
my  days — finding  out  things  when  it's  too  late  and  want- 
ing to  mend  things  that  are  hopelessly  broken.  And  then 
I  have  always  been  impulsive  and  enthusiastic  about  peo- 
ple. When  I  meet  them  first,  I  mean,  I  like  them  and 
credit  them  with  all  the  virtues,  and  then,  of  course,  there 
is  an  awakening.     Oh,  you  don't  know,"  he  said  with  a 


THE  W00DE:N"  horse  185 

little  laugh,  "  how  enthusiastic  I  was  when  I  first  came 
back." 

"  Yes,  I  do  know,"  she  answered;  "  that  was  one  of  the 
reasons  I  took  to  you." 

"  But  it  doesn't  do,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "  I've 
always  been  like  that.  It's  been  the  same  with  my  friend- 
ships. I've  rated  them  too  highly.  I've  expected  every- 
thing and  then  cried  like  a  child  because  I've  been  disap- 
pointed. I  can  see  now  not  only  the  folly  of  it,  but  the 
weakness.  It  is,  I  suppose,  a  mistake,  caring  too  much 
for  other  people,  one  loses  one's  self-respect." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  staring  out  to  sea,  "  it's  quite  true — 
one  does.  The  world's  too  hard ;  it  doesn't  give  one  credit 
for  fine  feelings — it  takes  a  short  cut  and  thinks  one  a 
fool." 

"  But  the  worst  of  it  is,"  he  went  on  ruefully,  "  that  I 
never  feel  any  older.  I  have  those  enthusiasms  and  that 
romance  in  the  same  way  now  at  forty-five — just  as  I  did 
at  nineteen.  I  never  could  bear  quarrelling  with  any- 
body. I  used  to  go  and  apologise  even  when  it  wasn't 
my  fault — so  that,  you  see,  the  present  situation  is  dif- 
ficult." 

"  Ah,  but  you  must  keep  your  end  up,"  she  broke  in 
quickly.  "  It's  the  only  way — don't  give  in.  Robin  is 
just  like  that.  He  is  self-centred,  all  shams  now,  and 
when  he  sees  that  you  are  taken  in  by  them,  just  as  he  is 
himself,  he  despises'  you.  But  when  he  sees  you  laugh  at 
them  or  cut  them  down,  then  he  respects  you.  I'm  the 
only  person,  I  think,  that  knows  him  really  here.  The 
others  haven't  grasped  him  at  all." 

"  My  father  grows  worse  each  day,"  Harry  went  on,  as 


186  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

though  pursuing  his  own  train  of  thought.  "  He  can't 
last  much  longer,  and  when  he  goes  I  shall  miss  him  ter- 
ribly. We  have  understood  each  other  during  this  fort- 
night as  we  never  did  in  all  those  early  years.  Sometimes 
I  funk  it  utterly — following  him  with  all  of  them  dead 
against  me." 

"  Why,  no,"  she  cried.  "  It's  splendid.  You  are  in 
power.  They  can  do  nothing,  and  Robin  will  come  round 
when  he  sees  how  you  face  it  out.  Why,  I  expect  that 
he's  coming  already.  I've  faced  things  out  here  all  these 
years,  and  you  dare  to  say  that  you  can't  stand  a  few 
months  of  it." 

"  What  have  you  faced  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Tell  me  exactly. 
I  want  to  know  all  about  you ;  you've  never  told  me  very 
much,  and  it's  only  fair  that  I  should  know." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  gravely,  "  it  is — well,  you  shall ! — at 
least  a  part  of  it.     A  woman  always  keeps  a  little  back,""\ 
"^she  said,  looking  at  him  with  a  smile.     "  As  soon  as  she  J 
ceases  to  be  a  puzzle  she  ceases  to  interest."  ^ 

She  turned  and  watched  the  sea.  Then,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  she  said: 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?  I  can  only  give  you  bits 
of  things — when,  for  instance,  I  ran  away  from  my  nurse, 
aged  five,  myself,  not  the  nurse,  was  picked  up  by  an 
applewoman  with  a  green  umbrella  who  introduced  me  to 
three  old  ladies  with  black  pipes  and  moustaches — I  was 
found  in  a  coal  cellar.  Then  we  lived  in  Bloomsbury — 
^a  little  house  looking  out  on  to  a  little  green  park — all 
in  miniature  it  seems  on  looking  back.  I  don't  think  that 
I  was  a  very  good  child,  but  they  didn't  look  after  me 
very  much.  Mother  was  always  out,  and  father  in  busi- 
ness.    Fancy,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  father  in  business ! 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  187 

We  were  happy  then,  I  think,  all  of  us.  Then  came  the 
terrible  time  when  father  ran  away." 

"  Ah  yes,"  Harry  said,  "  he  told  me." 

"  Poor  mother !  it  was  dreadful ;  I  was  only  eight  then, 
and  I  didn't  understand.  But  she  sat  up  all  night  wait- 
ing for  him.  She  was  persuaded  that  he  was  killed,  and 
she  was  very  ill.  You  see  he  had  never  left  any  word 
as  to  where  he  was.  And  then  he  suddenly  turned  up 
again,  and  eat  an  enormous  breakfast,  as  though  nothing 
had  happened.  I  don't  think  he  realised  a  bit  that  she 
had  worried. 

"  It  was  so  like  him,  the  naked  selfishness  of  it  and  the 
utter  unresponsibility,  as  of  a  child. 

"  Then  I  went  to  school — in  Bloomsbury  somewhere. 
It  was  a  Miss  Pinker,  and  she  was  interested  in  me.  Poor 
thing,  her  school  failed  afterwards.  I  don't  know  quite 
why,  but  she  never  could  manage,  and  I  don't  think 
parents  ever  paid  her.  I  had  great  ideas  of  myself  then ; 
I  thought  that  I  would  be  great,  an  actress  or  a  novelist  in 
the  public  eye,  but  I  got  rid  of  all  that  soon  enough.  I 
was  happy ;  we  had  friends,  and  luxuries  were  rare  enough 
to  make  them  valuable.  Then — we  came  down  here — 
this  sea,  this  town,  this  moor — Oh !  how  I  hate  them !  " 

Her  hands  were  clenched  and  her  face  was  white.  "  It 
isn't  fair;  they  have  taken  everything  from  me — leisure, 
brain,  friends.  I  have  had  to  slave  ever  since  I  came  here 
to  make  both  ends  meet.  Ah !  you  never  knew  that,  did 
you?  But  father  has  never  done  a  stroke  of  work  since 
he  has  been  here,  and  mother  has  never  been  the  same 
since  that  night  when  he  ran  away;  so  I've  had  it  all — 
and  it  has  been  scrape,  scrape,  scrape  all  the  time.  You 
don't  know  the  tyranny  of  butter  and  eggs  and  vegetables, 


/ 


188  THE  WOODED  HOESE 

the  perpetual  struggle  to  turn  twice  two  into  five,  tlie  un- 
ending worry  about  keeping  up  appearances — although, 
for  us,  it  mattered  j^recious  little,  people  never  came  to  see 
if  appearances  were  kept. 

"  They  called  at  first ;  I  think  they  meant  to  be  kind, 
but  father  was  sometimes  rude  and  never  seemed  to  know 
whether  he  had  met  a  person  before  or  not.  Then  he  was 
idle,  they  thought,  and  they  disliked  him  for  that.  We 
gave  some  little  parties,  but  they  failed  miserably,  and  at 
last  people  always  refused.  And,  really,  it  was  rather  a 
good  thing,  because  we  hadn't  got  the  money.  I  suppose 
.I'm  a  bad  manager;  at  any  rate,  whatever  it  is,  things 
have  been  getting  worse  and  worse,  and  one  day  soon 
there'll  be  an  explosion,  and  that  will  be  the  end.  We're 
up  to  our  eyes  in  debt.  I  try  to  talk  to  father  about  it, 
but  he  waves  it  away  with  his  hand.  They  have,  neither 
of  them,  the  least  idea  of  money.  You  see,  father  doesn't 
need  very  much  himself,  except  for  buying  books.  He 
had  ten  pounds  last  week — housekeeping  money  to  be 
given  to  me;  he  saw  an  edition  of  something  that  he 
wanted,  and  the  money  was  gone.  We've  been  living  on 
cabbages  ever  since.  That's  the  kind  of  thing  that's  al- 
ways happening.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  him  about  things 
this  morning,  but  he  said  that  he  had  an  important  en- 
gagement. ISTow  he's  out  on  the  moor  somewhere  flying 
his  kite " 

She  was  leaning  forward,  her  chin  on  her  hand,  staring 
out  to  sea. 

"  It  takes  the  beans  out  of  life,  doesn't  it  ? "  she  said, 
laughing.  "  You  must  think  me  rather  a  poor  thing  for 
complaining  like  this,  only  it  does  some  good  sometimes  to 
get  rid  of  it,  and  really  at  times  I'm  frightened  when  I 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  189 

think  of  the  end,  the  disgrace.  If  we  are  proclaimed 
bankrupts  it  will  kill  mother.  Eather,  of  course,  will  soon 
get  over  it." 

"  I  say — I'm  so  sorry."  Harry  scarcely  knew  what  to 
say.  She  was  not  asking  for  sympathy ;  he  saw  precisely 
her  position — that  she  was  too  proud  to  ask  for  his  help, 
but  that  she  must  speak.  No,  sympathy  was  not  what 
she  wanted.  He  suddenly  hated  Bethel — the  selfishness 
of  it,  the  hopeless  egotism.  It  was,  Harry  decided,  the 
fools,and„  not  the  villains  who  wrecked  the  world. 

"  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favour,"  he  said.  "  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  that,  before  the  end  actually  comes,  if 
it  is  going  to  come,  you  will  ask  me  to  help  you.  I  won't 
offer  to  do  anything  now — I  will  stand  aside  until  you 
want  me ;  but  you  won't  be  proud  if  it  comes  to  the  worst, 
will  you  ?  Do  you  promise  ?  You  see,"  he  added,  try- 
ing to  laugh  lightly,  "  we  are  chums." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  quietly,  "  I  promise.  Here's  my 
hand  on  it." 

As  he  took  her  hand  in  his  it  was  all  he  could  do  to 
hold  himself  back.  A  great  wave  of  passion  seized  him, 
his  body  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  he  grew  very 
white.  He  was  crying,  "  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love 
you,"  but  he  kept  the  words  from  his  lips — he  would  not 
speak  yet. 

"  Thank  you,"  was  all  that  he  said,  and  he  stood  up  to 
hide  his  agitation. 

For  a  little  they  did  not  speak.  They  both  felt  that, 
in  that  moment,  they  had  touched  on  things  that  were  too 
sacred  for  speech ;  he  seemed  so  strong,  so  splendid  in  her 
eyes,  as  he  stood  there,  facing  the  sea,  that  she  was  sud- 
denly afraid. 


190  THE  WOODEISr  HOESE 

"  Let  "US  go  back/'  she  said.  They  turned  down  the 
crooked  path  towards  the  ruined  chapel. 

"  What  was  the  news  that  you  had  for  me  ?  "  he  asked 
suddenly. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  answered ;  "  I  meant  to  have 
told  you  before."  Then,  more  gravely,  "It's  about 
Eobin " 

"  About  Eobin  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  know  really  whether  I  ought  to  tell  you, 
because,  after  all,  it's  only  chatter  and  mother  never  gets 
stories  right — she  manages  to  twist  them  into  the  most 
amazing  shapes." 

"  JSFo.     Tell  me,"  he  insisted. 

"  Well — there's  a  person  whom  mother  knows — a  Mrs. 
Eeverel.  Odious  to  my  mind,  but  mother  sees  something 
of  her." 

"A  lady?" 

"  1^0 — by  no  means ;  a  gloomy,  forbidding  person  who 
would  like  to  get  a  footing  here  if  she  could,  and  is  dis- 
contented because  people  won't  know  her.  You  see,"  she 
added,  "  we  can  only  know  the  people  that  other  people 
don't  know.  This  Mrs.  Feverel  has  a  daughter — rather 
a  pretty  girl,  about  eighteen — I  should  think  she  might 
be  rather  nice.  I  am  a  little  sorry  for  her— ^there  isn't 
a  father. 

'^  Well — these  people  have,  in  some  way,  entangled 
Kobin.  I  don't  quite  know  the  right  side  of  it,  but 
mother  was  having  tea  with  Mrs.  Feverel  yesterday  after- 
noon and  that  good  woman  hinted  a  great  deal  at  the 
power  that  she  now  had  over  your  family.  For  some 
time  she  was  mysterious,  but  at  last  she  unburdened  her- 
self. 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  191 

"  Apparently,  Master  Eobin  had  been  making  advances 
to  the  girl  in  the  summer,  and  now  wants  to  back  out  of 
it.  He  had,  I  gather,  written  letters,  and  it  was  to  these 
that  Mrs.  Feverel  was  referring " 

Harry  drew  a  long  breath.     "  I'm  damned,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  don't  know,"  she  went  on ;  "  you 
see,  it  may  have  been  garbled.  Mrs.  Feverel  is,  I  should 
think,  just  the  person  to  hint  suspicions  for  which  there's 
no  ground  at  all.  Only  it  won't  do  if  she's  going  to 
whisper  to  every  one  in  Pendragon — I  thought  you  ought 
to  be  warned " 

Harry  was  thinking  hard.  "  The  young  fool,"  he  said. 
"  But  it's  just  what  I've  been  wanting.  This  is  just 
where  I  can  come  in.  I  knew  something  has  been  worry- 
ing him  lately.  I  could  see  it.  I  believe  he's  been  in 
two  minds  as  to  telling  me — only  he's  been  too  proud. 
But,  of  course,  he  will  have  to  tell  some  one.  A  young- 
/  ster  like  that  is  no  match  for  a  girl  and  her  mother  like 
these  people  seem  to  be.  He  will  confide  in  his  aunt — " 
He  stopped  and  burst  into  uncontrollable  laughter. 
"  Oh !  The  humour  of  it — don't  you  see  ?  They'll  be 
terrified — it  will  threaten  the  honour  of  the  House.  They 
;  will  all  go  running  round  to  get  the  letters  back ;  that  girl 
I  will  have  a  good  time — and  that,  of  course,  is  just  where 
I   I  come  in." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Mary. 

"  Why,  it's  just  what  I've  been  watching  for.  Harry 
Trojan  arrives — Harry  Trojan  is  no  good — Harry  Trojan 
is  despised — but  suddenly  he  holds  the  key  to  the  situa- 
tion.    Presto!     The  family  on  their  knees " 

Mary  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  It  was,  she 
thought,  unlike  him  to  exult  like  this  over  the  misfortunes 


192  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

of  his  sister ;  she  was  a  little  disappointed.  "  It  is  really 
rather  serious,"  she  said,  "  for  your  sister,  I  mean.  You 
know  what  Pendragon  is.  If  they  once  get  wind  of  the 
affair  there  will  be  a  great  deal  of  talk." 

"  Ah,  yes !  "  he  said  gravely.  "  You  mustn't  think  me 
a  brute  for  laughing  like  that.  But  I'm  thinking  of 
Eobin.  If  you  knew  how  I  cared  for  the  boy — what  this 
means.  Why,  it  brings  him  to  my  feet — if  I  carry  the 
thing  out  properly."  Then  quickly,  "  You  don't  think 
they've  got  back  the  letters  already  ?  " 

"  They  haven't  had  time — unless  they've  gone  to-day. 
Besides,  the  girl's  not  likely  to  give  them  up  easily.  But, 
of  course,  I  don't  really  know  if  that's  how  the  case  lies — 
mother's  account  was  very  confused.  Only  I  am  certain 
that  Mrs.  Eeverel  thinks  she  has  a  pull  somewhere;  and 
she  said  something  about  letters." 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  Harry  said,  walking  quickly.  "  I 
can  never  be  grateful  enough  to  you.  Where  do  they 
live?" 

"  10  Seaview  Terrace,"  she  answered.  "  A  little  dingy 
street  past  the  church  and  Broadwater  Place — it  faces  the 
sea." 

"  And  the  girl — what  is  she  like  ?  " 

"  I've  only  seen  her  about  twice.  I  should  say  tall, 
thin,  dark — rather  wonderful  eyes  in  a  very  pale  face; 
dresses  rather  well  in  an  aesthetic  kind  of  way." 

He  said  very  little  more,  and  she  did  not  interrupt  his 
thoughts.  She  was  surprised  to  find  that  she  was  a  little 
jealous  of  Kobin,  the  interest  in  her  own  affairs  had  been 
very  sweet  to  her,  the  remembrance  of  it  now  sent  the 
blood  to  her  cheeks,  but  this  news  seemed  to  have  driven 
his  thought  for  her  entirely  out  of  his  head. 


THE  WOODEN"  HORSE  193 

Suddenly,  at  the  bend  of  the  little  lane  leading  up  to 
the  town,  they  came  upon  her  father,  flying  a  huge  blue 
kite.  The  kite  soared  above  his  head;  he  watched  it,  his 
body  bent  back,  his  arm  straining  at  the  cord.  He  saw 
them  and  pulled  it  in. 

"  Hullo!  Trojan,  how  are  you?  You  ought  to  do  this. 
It's  the  most  splendid  fim — you've  no  idea.  This  wind  is 
glorious.  I  shan't  be  home  till  dark,  Mary — "  and  they 
left  him,  laughing  like  a  boy.  She  gave  him  further 
directions  as  to  the  house,  and  they  parted.  She  felt  a 
little  lonely  as  she  watched  him  hurrying  down  the  street. 
He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  completely.  "  Mary 
Bethel,  you're  a  selfish  pig ;  "  she  said,  as  she  climbed 
the  stairs  to  her  room.  "  Of  course,  he  cares  more  about 
his  son — why  not  ? "  But  nevertheless  she  sighed,  and 
then  went  down  to  make  tea  for  her  mother  who  was  tired 
and  on  the  verge  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  S  lie  passed  through,  the  town  all  his  thoughts  werd 
■■^^*-  of  his  splendid  fortune.  This  was  the  very  thing 
for  which  he  had  been  hoping,  the  key  to  all  his  diffi- 
culties. 

'  The  dusk  was  creeping  down  the  streets.  A  silver  star 
hung  over  the  roofs  silhouetted  black  against  the  faint 
blue  of  the  night  sky.  The  lamps  seemed  to  wage  war 
with  the  departing  daylight;  the  afterglow  of  the  setting 
sun  fluttered  valiantly  for  a  little,  and  then,  yielding  its 
place  to  the  stronger  golden  circles  stretching  like  hanging 
moons  down  the  street,  vanished. 

The  shops  were  closing.  Worthley's  Hosiery  was  put- 
ting up  the  shutters  and  a  boy  stood  in  the  doorway, 
yawning;  there  had  been  a  sale  and  the  shop  was  tired. 
Midgett's  Bookshop  at  the  corner  of  the  High  Street  was 
still  open  and  an  old  man  with  spectacles  and  a  flowing 
beard  stood  poring  over  the  odd-lot  box  at  2d.  a  volume 
by  the  door. 

The  young  man  who  advised  ladies  as  to  the  purchase 

of  six-shilling  novels  waited  impatiently.     He  had  hoped 

to  be  off  by  six  to-night.     He  had  an  appointment  at 

seven — and  now  this  old  man.  ..."  We  close  at  six, 

sir,"  he  said.     But  the  old  gentleman  did  not  hear.     He 

bent  lower  and  lower  until  his  head  almost  swept  the 

pavement.     Harry  passed  on.     An  electric-tram  with  a 

rattle  and  jostle  flashed  past,  round  the  corner — for  a 

194 


THE  WOODED  HOESE  195 

moment  faces  were  visible  beneatli  tlie  flaring  red  and 
green  lights. 

All  these  things  passed  like  shadows  before  Harry;  he 
noticed  them,  but  they  fitted  into  the  pattern  of  his 
thoughts,  forming  a  frame  round  his  great  central  idea — 
that  at  last  he  had  his  chance. 

There  was  no  fear  in  his  mind  that  he  would  not  get 
the  letters.  There  was,  of  course,  the  chance  that  Clare 
had  been  before  him,  but  then,  as  Mary  had  said,  she  had 
scarcely  had  time,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  the  girl 
would  give  them  up  easily.  It  was  just  possible,  too, 
that  the  whole  affair  was  a  mistake,  that  Mrs.  Feverel 
had  merely  boasted  for  the  sake  of  impressing  old  Mrs. 
Bethel  that  there  was  little  or  nothing  behind  it,  but  that 
was  unlikely. 

He  had  formed  no  definite  decision  as  to  the  method 
of  his  attack ;  he  must  wait  and  see  how  the  land  lay.  A 
great  deal  depended  on  the  presence  of  the  mother — the 
girl,  too,  might  be  so  many  different  things;  he  was  not 
even  certain  of  her  age.  If  there  was  nothing  in  it,  he 
would  look  a  fool,  but  he  must  risk  that.  A  wild 
idea  came  into  his  head  that  he  might,  perhaps,  find  Clare 
there — that  would  be  amusing.  He  imagined  them  bid- 
ding for  the  letters,  and  that  brought  him  to  the  point  that 
money  would  be  necessary — well,  he  was  ready  to  pay  a 
good  deal,  for  it  was  Eobiu  for  whom  he  was  bidding. 

He  found  the  street  without  any  difficulty.  Its  dingi- 
ness  was  obvious,  and  now,  with  a  little  wind  whistling 
round  its  corners  and  whirling  eddies  of  dust  in  the  road, 
its  three  lamps  at  long  distances  down  the  street,  the 
monotonous  beat  of  the  sea  beyond  its  walls,  it  was  de- 
pressing and  sad. 


im  THE  WOODEN  HOUSE 

It  reminded  him  of  the  street  in  Auckland  where  he 
had  heard  the  strange  voice;  it  was  just  such  another 
moment  now — the  silence  bred  expectancy  and  the  sea 
"Was  menacing. 

"  I  shall  get  the  shivers  if  I  don't  move,"  he  said,  and 
rang  the  bell. 

The  slatternly  servant  that  he  had  expected  to  see  an- 
swered the  bell,  and  the  tap-tap  of  her  down-at-heels 
slippers  sounded  along  the  passage  as  she  departed  to  see 
if  Mrs.  Feverel  would  see  him. 

He  waited  in  the  draughty  hall;  it  was  so  dark  that 
coats  and  hats  loomed,  ghostly  shapes,  by  the  farther  wall. 
A  door  opened,  there  was  sound  of  voices — a  moment's 
pause,  then  the  door  closed  and  the  maid  appeared  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs. 

"  The  missis  says  you  can  come  up,"  she  said  ungra- 
ciously. 

She  eyed  him  curiously  as  he  passed  her,  and  scented 
drama  in  the  set  of  his  shoulders  and  the  twitch  of  his 
fingers. 

*'  A  military !  "  she  concluded,  and  tap-tapped  down 
again  into  the  kitchen. 

A  low  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate  and  the  blind 
flapped  against  the  window.  The  draught  blew  the  ever- 
lastings on  the  mantelpiece  together  with  a  little  dry, 
dusty  sound  like  the  rustle  of  a  breeze  in  dried  twigs. 

Mrs.  Feverel  sat  bending  over  the  fire,  and  he  thought 
as  he  saw  her  that  it  would  need  a  very  great  fire  indeed 
to  put  any  warmth  into  her.  Her  black  hair,  parted  in 
the  middle,  was  bound  back  tightly  over  her  head  and 
confined  by  a  net. 


THE  WOODEK  HORSE  197 

She  shook  hands  with  him  solemnly,  and  then  waited 
as  though  she  expected  an  explanation. 

Harry  smiled.  "  I'm  afraid,  Mrs.  Feverel,"  he  said, 
"  that  yon  may  think  this  extraordinary.  I  can  only 
offer  as  apology  your  acquaintance  with  my  son." 

"  Ah  yes— Mr.  Robert  Trojan." 

Her  mouth  closed  with  a  snap  and  she  waited,  with 
her  hands  folded  on  her  lap,  for  him  to  say  something 
further. 

"  You  knew  him,  I  think,  at  Cambridge  in  the  sum- 
mer ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  daughter  and  I  were  there  in  the  aummer." 

Harry  paused.  It  would  be  harder  than  he  expected, 
and  where  was  the  daughter  ? 

"  Cambridge  is  very  pleasant  in  the  summer  ? "  he 
asked,  his  resolution  weakening  rapidly  before  her  im- 
passivity. 

"  My  daughter  and  I  found  it  so.  But,  of  course,  it 
depends " 

It  depended,  he  reflected,  on  such  people  as  his  son — 
boys  whom  they  could  cheat  at  their  ease.  He  had  no 
doubt  at  all  now  that  the  mother  was  an  adventuress  of 
the  common,  melodrama  type.  He  suspected  the  girl  of 
being  the  same.  It  made  things  in  some  ways  much 
simpler,  because  money  would,  probably,  settle  every- 
thing; there  would  be  no  question  of  fine  feelings.  He 
knew  exactly  how  to  deal  with  such  women,  he  had 
known  them  in  ISTew  Zealand;  but  he  was  amused  as  he 
contemplated  Clare's  certain  failure — such  a  woman  was 
entirely  outside  her  experience. 

He  came  to  the  point  at  once. 


198  THE  WOODEN"  HOESE 

"  My  being  here  is  easily  explained.  I  learn,  Mrs. 
Feverel,  that  my  son  formed  an  attachment  for  your 
daughter  during  last  summer.  He  wrote  some  letters 
now  in  your  daughter's  possession.  His  family  are  nat- 
urally anxious  that  those  letters  should  be  returned.  I 
have  come  to  see  what  can  be  done  about  the  matter."  He 
paused — but  she  said  nothing,  and  remained  motionless 
by  the  fire. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said  slowly,  "  you  would  prefer,  Mrs. 
Feverel,  to  name  a  possible  price  yourself  ?  " 

Afterwards,  on  looking  back,  he  felt  that  his  expecta- 
tions had  been  perfectly  justified;  she  had,  up  to  that 
point,  given  him  every  reason  to  take  the  line  that  he 
adopted.  She  had  listened  to  the  first  part  of  his  speech 
without  remark;  she  must,  he  reflected  afterwards,  have 
known  what  was  coming,  yet  she  had  given  no  sign  that 
she  heard. 

And  so  the  change  in  her  was  startling  and  took  him 
utterly  by  surprise. 

She  looked  up  at  him  from  her  chair,  and  the  thin 
ghost  of  a  smile  that  crept  round  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
faced  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  vanished  suddenly,  was 
the  strangest  thing  that  he  had  ever  seen. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Trojan,  that  that  is  a  little 
insulting  ?  " 

It  made  him  feel  utterly  ashamed.  In  her  ovm  house, 
in  her  drawing-room,  he  had  offered  her  money. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  slowly.  "  You  had  rather  mis- 
conceived the  situation." 

Harry  felt  that  her  silences  were  the  most  eloquent 
that  he  had  ever  known.     He  began  to  be  very  frightened, 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  199 

and,  for  tlie  first  time,  conceived  tlie  possibility  of  not 
securing  the  letters  at  all.  The  thought  that  his  hopes 
might  he  dashed  to  the  ground,  that  he  might  be  no  nearer 
his  goal  at  the  end  of  the  interview  than  before,  sharp- 
ened his  wits.  It  was  to  be  a  deal  in  subtlety  rather  than 
the  obvious  thing  that  he  had  expected — well,  he  would 
play  it  to  the  end. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  again.  "  I  have  been 
extremely  rude.  I  am  only  recently  returned  from 
abroad,  and  my  knowledge  of  the  whole  affair  is  neces- 
sarily very  limited.  I  came  here  with  a  very  vague  idea 
both  as  to  yourself  and  your  intentions.  In  drawing  the 
conclusions  that  I  did  I  have  done  both  you  and  your 
daughter  a  grave  injustice  for  which  I  humbly  apologise. 
I  may  say  that,  before  coming  here,  I  had  had  no  inter- 
view with  my  son.     I  am,  therefore,  quite  ignorant  as 


regards  facts.' 


He  did  not  feel  that  his  apology  had  done  much  good. 
He  felt  that  she  had  accepted  both  his  insult  and  apology 
quite  calmly,  as  though  she  had  regarded  them  inevitably. 

"  The  facts,"  she  said,  looking  down  again  at  the  fire, 
"  are  quite  simple.  My  daughter  and  your  son  became 
acquainted  at  Cambridge  in  May  last.  They  saw  a  great 
deal  of  each  other  during  the  next  few  months.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  they  were  engaged.  Mr.  Eobert  Trojan 
gave  us  to  understand  that  he  was  about  to  acquaint  his 
family  with  the  fact.  They  corresponded  continually 
during  the  summer — letters,  I  believe,  of  the  kind  com- 
mon to  young  people  in  love.  Mr.  Eobert  Trojan  spoke 
continually  of  the  marriage  and  suggested  dates.  We 
then  came  down  here,  and,  soon  after  our  arrival,  I  per- 
ceived a  change  in  your  son's  attitude.     He  came  to  see 


200  THE  WOODED  HORSE 

ns  very  rarely,  and  at  last  ceased  his  visits  altogether. 
Mj  daughter  was  naturally  extremely  upset,  and  there 
were  several  rather  painful  interviews.  He  then  wrote 
returning  her  letters  and  demanding  the  return  of  his 
own.  This  she  definitely  refused.  Those  are  the  facts, 
Mr.  Trojan." 

She  had  spoken  without  any  emotion,  and  evidently 
expected  that  he  should  do  the  same. 

"  I  have  come,"  he  said,  "  on  behalf  of  my  son  to 
demand  the  return  of  those  letters." 

"Demand?" 

"  Naturally.  Letters,  Mrs.  Feverel,  of  that  kind  are 
dangerous  things  to  leave  about." 

"  Yes  ?  "  She  smiled.  "  Dangerous  for  whom  ?  I 
think  you  forget  a  little,  Mr.  Trojan,  in  your  anxiety  for 
your  son's  welfare,  my  daughter's  side  of  the  question. 
She  naturally  treasures  what  represents  to  her  the  hap- 
piest months  of  her  existence.  You  must  remember  that 
your  son's  conduct — shall  I  call  it  desertion  ? — was  a  ter- 
rible blow.  She  loved  him,  Mr.  Trojan,  with  all  her 
heart.  Is  it  not  right  that  he  should  suffer  a  little  as 
well?" 

"  I  refuse  to  believe,"  he  answered  sharply,  "  that  this 
ia  all  a  matter  of  sentiment.  I  regret  extremely  that  my 
son  should  have  behaved  in  such  a  cowardly  and  dastardly 
manner — it  has  hurt  and  surprised  me  more  than  I  can 
Bay — but,  were  that  all,  it  were  surely  better  to  bury  the 
whole  affair  as  soon  as  may  be.  I  cannot  believe  that 
you  are  keeping  the  letters  with  no  intention  of  making 
public  use  of  them." 

"Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Feverel,  "I  wonder." 

"  Hadn't  we  better  come  to  a  clear  understanding,  Mrs. 


THE  WOODE^sT  HORSE  201 

Eeverel  ? "  he  asked.  "  We  are  neither  of  us  children, 
and  this  beating  about  the  bush  serves  no  purpose  what- 
ever. If  you  refuse  to  return  the  letters,  I  have  at  least 
the  right  to  ask  what  you  mean  to  do  with  them." 

"  Here  is  my  daughter,"  she  answered,  "  she  shall 
speak  for  herself." 

He  turned  round  at  the  sound  of  the  opening  door,  and 
watched  her  as  she  came  in.  She  was  very  much  as  he 
expected — thin  and  tall,  walking  straight  from  the  hips, 
giving  a  little  the  impression  that  she  was  standing  on  her 
toes.  Her  eyes  seemed  amazingly  dark  in  the  whiteness 
of  her  face.  She  seemed  a  little  older  than  he  had  ex- 
pected— perhaps  twenty-five  or  twenty-six. 

She  looked  at  him  sharply  as  she  entered  and  then 
came  forward  to  her  mother.     He  could  see  that  she  was 
agitated — her  breath  came  quickly,  and  her  hands  folded- 
and  unfolded  as  though  she  were  tearing  something  to 
pieces. 

"  This,"  said  Mrs.  Eeverel,  "  is  my  daughter,  Mr. 
Trojan.     My  dear,  Mr.  Henry  Trojan." 

She  bowed  and  sat  down  opposite  her  mother.  He 
thought  that  she  looked  rather  pathetic  as  she  faced  him; 
here  was  no  adventuress,  no  schemer.  He  began  to  feel 
that  his  son  had  behaved  brutally,  outrageously. 

Mrs.  Eeverel  rose.  "  I  will  leave  you,  my  dear.  Mr. 
Trojan  will  tell  you  for  what  he  has  come." 

She  moved  slowly  from  the  room  and  Harry  drew  a 
breath  of  relief  at  her  absence.  There  was  a  moment's 
pause.  Then — "  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me.  Miss  Eev- 
erel," he  said  gently.  "  I'm  afraid  that  both  your  mother 
and  yourself  must  regard  this  as  impertinent,  but,  at  the 
same  time,  I  think  you  will  understand." 


203  THE  WOODEN"  HORSE 

She  seemed  to  have  regained  her  composure.  "  It  is 
about  Eobin,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Could  you  tell  me  exactly  what  the  relations 
between  you  were  ?  " 

"  We  were  engaged/'  she  answered  simply,  '^  last  sum- 
mer at  Cambridge.     He  broke  off  the  engagement." 

"  Yes — but  I  understand  that  you  intend  to  keep  his 
letters  ?  " 

"  That  is  quite  true." 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  restore  them." 

"  I  am  sorry.  I  am  afraid  that  it  is  waste  of  time.  I 
shall  not  go  back  on  my  word." 

He  could  not  understand  what  her  game  was — he  was 
not  sure  that  she  had  a  game  at  all ;  she  seemed  very  help- 
less, and,  at  the  same  time,  he  felt  that  there  was  strength 
behind  her  answers.  He  was  at  a  loss,  and  he  felt  that 
his  experience  was  of  no  value  to  him  at  all. 

"  I  am  going  to  beg  you  to  alter  your  decision.  I  am 
pleading  with  you  in  a  matter  that  is  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance to  me.  Eobin  is  my  only  son.  He  has  behaved 
abominably,  and  you  can  understand  that  it  has  been 
rather  a  blow  to  me  to  return  after  twenty  years'  absence 
and  find  him  engaged  in  such  an  affair.  But  he  is  very 
young,  -and — pardon  me — so  are  you.  I  am  an  older 
man  and  my  experience  of  the  world  is  greater  than  yours ; 
believe  me  when  I  say  that  you  will  regret  persistence  in 
your  refusal  most  bitterly  in  later  years.  It  seems  to  me 
a  crisis — a  crisis,  perhaps,  for  all  of  us.  Take  an  older 
man's  word  for  it;  there  is  only  one  possible  course  for 
you  to  adopt." 

"  Eeally,  Mr.  Trojan,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  you  are 
intensely  serious.     Last  week  I  thought  that  my  heart 


THE  WOODEK  HORSE  203 

was  broken ;  but  now — well,  it  takes  a  lot  to  break  a  heart. 
I  am  sure  that  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  my  appetite 
has  returned.  As  to  the  letters — why,  think  how  pleasant 
it  will  be  for  me  to  sentimentalise  over  them  in  my  old 
age!     Surely,  that  is  sufficient  motive." 

She  was  trying  to  speak  lightly,  but  her  lip  quivered. 

"  You  are  running  a  serious  risk,  Miss  Feverel,"  he 
answered  gravely.  "  Your  intention  is,  I  imagine,  to 
punish  Robin.  I  can  assure  you  that  in  a  few  years' 
time  he  will  be  punished  enough.  He  scarcely  realises 
as  yet  what  he  has  done.  That  knowledge  will  come  to 
him  later." 

"  Poor  Robin !  "  she  said.  "  Yes,  he  ought  to  feel 
rather  a  worm  now;  he  has  written  me  several  very  agi- 
tated letters.  But  really  I  cannot  help  it.  The  affair 
is  over — done  with.  I  regard  the  letters  as  my  personal 
property.  I  cannot  see  that  it  is  any  one  else's  business 
at  all." 

"  Of  course  it  is  our  business,"  he  answered  seriously. 
"  Those  letters  must  be  destroyed.  I  do  not  accuse  you 
of  any  deliberate  malicious  intentions,  but  there  is,  as 
far  as  I  can  see,  only  one  motive  in  your  keeping  them. 
I  have  not  seen  them,  but  from  what  I  have  heard  I 
gather  that  they  contain  definite  promise  of  marriage. 
Your  case  is  a  strong  one." 

"  Yes,"  she  laughed,  "  Poor  Robin's  enthusiasm  led 
him  to  some  very  violent  exjDressions  of  affection.  But, 
Mr.  Trojan,  revenge  is  sweet.  Every  woman,  I  think, 
likes  it,  and  I  am  no  exception  to  my  sex.  Aren't  you 
a  little  unfair  in  claiming  all  the  pleasure  and  none  of 
the  pain  ? " 

"  No,"    he   answered   firmly.     "  I   am   not.     It   is   as 


204  THE  WOODEI^  HORSE 

much  for  your  own  sake  as  for  his  that  I  am  making  my 
claim.  You  cannot  see  things  in  fair  proportion  now;, 
you  will  bitterly  regret  the  step  you  contemplate  taking.'^ 

"  Well,  I  am  sure,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  very  good  of  you 
to  think  of  me  like  that.  I  am  deeply  touched — you 
seem  to  take  quite  a  fatherly  interest."  She  lay  back  in 
her  chair  and  watched  him  with  eyes  half  closed. 

He  was  beginning  to  believe  that  it  was  no  pose  after 
all,  and  his  anger  rose. 

"  Come,  Miss  Feverel,"  he  said,  "  let's  have  done  with 
playing — let  us  come  to  terms.  It  is  a  matter  of  vital 
importance  that  I  should  receive  the  letters.  I  am  ready 
to  go  some  lengths  to  obtain  them.  What  are  your 
terms  ?  " 

She  flushed  a  little. 

"  Isn't  that  a  little  rude,  Mr.  Trojan  ?  "  she  said.  "  It 
is  of  course  the  melodramatic  attitude.  It  was  not  long 
ago  that  I  saw  a  play  in  which  letters  figured.  Pistols 
were  fired,  and  the  heroine  wore  red  plush.  Is  that  to 
be  our  style  now!  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  oblige  you. 
There  are  no  pistols,  but  I  will  tell  you  frankly  that  it  is 
no  question  of  terms.  I  refuse,  under  any  circumstances 
whatever,  to  return  the  letters." 

"  That  is  your  absolute  decision." 

"  My  absolute  decision." 

He  got  up  and  stood,  for  a  moment,  by  her  chair. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  do  not  know  what  you  are 
doing.  You  are  disappointed,  you  are  insulted — you 
think  that  you  will  have  your  revenge  at  all  costs.  You 
do  not  know  now,  but  you  will  discover  later  that  it  has 
been  no  revenge  at  all.  It  will  be  the  most  regretted  ac- 
tion of  your  life.     You  have  a  great  chance;  you  are 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  205 

going  to  throw  it  away.  I  am  sorry,  because  you  are  not, 
I  think,  at  all  that  sort  of  girl."  He  paused  a  moment. 
"  Well,  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  I  am  sorry  as  much 
for  your  sake  as  my  own.     Good-bye." 

He  moved  to  the  door.  The  disappointment  was  al- 
most more  than  he  could  bear.  He  did  not  know  how 
strong  his  hopes  had  been;  and  now  he  must  return  with 
things  as  they  were  before,  with  the  added  knowledge  that 
his  son  had  behaved  like  a  cad  and  that  the  world  would 
soon  know. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  again  and  turned  round  towards 
ler. 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  tried  to  smile.  She  said 
something  that  he  could  not  catch,  and  then,  suddenly,  to 
his  intense  astonishment,  she  flung  herself  back  into  her 
chair  again,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  burst  into  un- 
controllable tears.  He  stood  irresolute,  and  then  came 
back  and  waited  by  the  fireplace.  He  thought  it  was  the 
most  desolate  thing  that  he  had  ever  known — the  flapping 
of  the  blind  against  the  window,  the  dry  rustling  of  the 
leaves  on  the  mantelpiece,  only  accentuated  the  sound  of 
her  sobbing.  He  let  her  cry  and  then,  at  last — "  I  am  a 
brute,"  he  said.     "  I  am  sorry — I  will  go  away." 

"  jSTo."  She  sat  up  and  began  to  dry  her  eyes  with  her 
handkerchief.  "  Don't  go — it  was  absurd  of  me  to  give 
way  like  that ;  I  thought  that  I  had  got  over  all  that,  but 
one  is  so  silly — one  never  can  tell " 

He  sat  down  again  and  waited. 

"  You  see,"  she  went  on,  "  I  had  liked  you,  always, 
from  the  first  moment  that  I  saw  you.  You  were  differ- 
ent from  the  others — quite  different — and  after  Eobin 
had  behaved — like  he   did — I  distrusted  every   one.     I 


206  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

thought  they  were  all  like  that  except  you.  You  do  not 
know  what  people  have  done  to  us  here.  We  have  had  no 
friends ;  they  have  all  despised  us,  especially  your  family. 
And  Kobin  said — well,  lots  of  things  that  hurt.  That  I 
was  not  good  enough  and  that  his  aunt  would  not  like  me. 
And  then,  of  course,  when  I  saw  that,  if  I  kept  the  letters, 
I  could  make  them  all  unhappy — why,  of  course,  I  kept 
them.  It  was  natural,  wasn't  it?  But  I  didn't  want  to 
hurt  you — I  felt  that  all  the  time;  and  when  I  saw  you 
here  when  I  came  in,  I  was  afraid,  because  I  hardly  knew 
what  to  do.  I  thought  I  would  show  you  that  I  wasn't 
weak  and  foolish  like  you  thought  me — the  kind  of  girl 
that  Eobin  could  throw  over  so  easily  without  thinking 
twice  about  it — and  so  I  meant  to  hold  out.  There — 
and  now,  of  course,  you  think  me  hateful." 

He  sat  do^vn  by  her  and  took  her  hand.  "  It's  all 
rather  ridiculous,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  said.  "  I'm  old  enough 
to  be  your  father,  but  I'm  just  where  you  are,  really. 
We've  all  been  learning  this  last  fortnight — you,  and 
Robin,  and  I — and  all  learning  the  same  thing.  It's 
been  a  case,"  he  hesitated  for  a  word,  "  of  calf-love,  for 
all  three  of  us.  Don't  regTet  Robin;  he's  not  worth  it. 
Why,  you  are  worth  twenty  of  him,  and  he'll  know  that 
later  on.  I'm  afraid  that  sounds  patronising,"  he  added, 
laughing.  "  But  I'm  humble  really.  Never  mind  the 
letters.  You  shall  do  what  you  like  with  them  and  I 
will  trust  you.  You  are  not,"  he  repeated,  "  that  sort  of 
girl.  Why,  dash  it !  "  he  suddenly  added,  "  Robin  doesn't 
know  what  he  has  lost." 

"  Ah !  "  she  said,  blushing,  "  it  wouldn't  have  done.  I 
can  see  that  now — but  I  can  see  so  many  things  that  I 
couldn't  see  before.     I  wish  I  had  known  a  man  like  you 


THE  WOODEK  horse  207 

— then  I  might  have  learnt  earlier;  but  I  had  nobody, 
nobody  at  all,  and  I  nearly  made  a  mess  of  things.  But 
it  isn't  too  late !  " 

"  Too  late !  Why,  no !  "  he  answered.  "  I'm  only  be- 
ginning now,  and  I'm  forty-five.  I,  too,  have  learned  a 
lot  in  this  fortnight." 

She  looked  at  him  anxiously  for  a  moment.  "  They 
don't  like  you,  do  they  ?     Robin  and  the  others  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered ;  "  I  don't  think  they  do." 

"  I  know,"  she  said  quickly ;  "  I  heard  from  Robin, 
and  I'm  sorry.  You  must  have  had  a  bad  time.  But 
why,  if  they  have  been  like  that,  do  you  want  the  letters  ? 
They  have  treated  us  both  in  the  same  way." 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  answered.  "  Only  Robin  is  my  son. 
That,  you  see,  is  my  great  affair.  I  care  for  him  more 
than  for  anything  in  the  world,  and  if  I  had  the  let- 
ters  " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  cried,  "  I  see — it  gives  you  the 
puU.  Why,  how  blind  I've  been !  It's  splendid !  "  She 
sprang  up,  and  went  to  a  small  writing-desk  by  the  win- 
dow; she  unlocked  a  drawer  and  retiimed  with  a  small 
packet  in  her  hand.  "  There,"  she  said,  "  there  they  are. 
They  are  not  many,  are  they,  for  such  a  big  fuss?  But 
I  think  that  I  meant  you  to  have  them  all  the  time — from 
the  first  moment  that  I  saw  you.  I  had  hoped  that  you 
would  ask  for  them " 

He  took  the  letters,  held  them  in  his  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  slipped  them  into  his  pocket. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  not  forget." 

"IS^or  I,"  she  answered.  "We  are,  I  suppose,  ships 
that  pass  in  the  night..  We  have  just  shared  for  a  mo- 
ment an  experience,   and  it  has  changed  both  of  us   a 


208  THE  WOODEK  HOESE 

little.  But  sometimes  remember  me,  will  you  ?  Perhaps 
you  would  write  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  he  answered,  "  I  shall  want  to  know 
how  things  turn  out.     What  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  We  will  go  away  from  here,  of  course. 
Go  back  to  London,  I  expect — and  I  will  get  some  work* 
There  are  lots  of  things  to  do,  and  I  shall  be  happy." 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  "  that  the  real  thing  is  just  begin- 
ning for  both  of  us." 

She  stood  by  the  window  looking  out  into  the  street. 
"  It  makes  things  different  if  you  believe  in  me,"  she  said. 
"  It  will  give  one  courage.  I  had  begun  to  think  that 
there  was  no  one  in  the  world  who  cared." 

"  Be  plucky,"  he  said.  "  Work's  the  only  thing.  It 
is  because  we've  both  been  idle  here  that  we're  worried. 
Don't  think  any  more  of  Robin.  He  isn't  good  enough 
for  you  yet ;  he'll  learn,  like  the  rest  of  us ;  but  he'll  have 
to  go  through  something  first.     You'll  find  a  better  man." 

"  Poor  Eobin,"  she  said.     "  Be  kind  to  him !  " 

He  took  her  hand  for  a  moment,  smiled,  and  was  gone. 
She  watched  him  from  the  window. 

He  looked  back  at  her  and  smiled  again.  Then  he 
passed  the  corner  of  the  street. 

"  So  that's  the  end !  "  She  turned  back  from  the  win- 
dow.    "  Now  for  a  beginning !  " 


CHAPTEE  XI 

GAERETT  TEOJAN"  had  considered  the  matter  for 
two  days  and  had  come  to  no  conclusion.  His  man-, 
ner  of  considering  anything  was  peculiar.  He  loved  pro- 
crastination  and  coloured  future  events  with  such  beauti- 
ful radiancy  that,  when  they  actually  came,  the  shock  of 
finding  them  only  drab  was  so  terrible  that  he  avoided  / 
them  altogether.  He  was,  however,  saved  from  any  last- 
ing pain  and  disappointment  because  he  had  been  given, 
from  early  childhood,  that  splendid  gift  of  discovering 
himself  to  be  the  continual  hero  of  a  continual  play.  It 
was  not  onlv  that  he  could  make  no  move  in  life  at  all 
without  being  its  hero — that,  of  course,  was  pleasant 
enough ;  but  that  it  was  always  a  fresh  discovery  was  truly 
the  amazing  thing.  He  was  able  to  wake  up,  as  it  were, 
and  discover  afresh,  every  day  of  his  life,  what  a  hero  he 
was;  this  was  never  monotonous,  never  wearisome.  He 
played  the  game  anew  from  day  to  day — and  the  best  part 
of  the  game  was  not  knowing  that  it  was  a  game  at  all. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  he  only  maintained  the  illu- 
sion by  keeping  somewhat  apart  from  his  fellowmen — too 
frequent  contact  must  have  destroyed  his  dreams.  But 
his  aloofness  was  termed  preserving  his  individuality,  and 
in  the  well-curtained  library,  in  carpet-slippers  and  a 
smoking- jacket,  he  built  his  own  monument  with  infinite 
care  before  an  imaginary  crowd  in  an  imaginary  city  of 

dreams. 

209 


210  THE  WOODEN^  HOESE 

There  were  times^  of  course,  when  he  was  a  little  un- 
easy. He  had  heard  men  titter  at  the  Club;  Clare  had, 
occasionally,  spoken  plain  words  as  to  his  true  position  in 
the  House,  and  he  had  even,  at  times,  doubts  as  to  the 
permanent  value  of  the  book  on  which  he  was  engaged. 
During  these  awful  moments  he  gazed  through  the  rent 
curtain  into  a  valley  of  dead  men's  bones  ruled  by  a  dreary  I 
god  who  had  no  knowledge  of  Garrett  Trojan  and  cared  ' 
very  little  for  the  fortunes  of  the  Trojan  House. 

But  a  diligent  application  to  the  storehouses  of  his 
memory  produced  testimonials  dragged,  for  the  most  part, 
from  reluctant  adherents  which  served  to  prove  that  Gar- 
rett Trojan  was  a  great  man  and  the  head  of  a  great 
family. 

He  would,  however,  like  some  definite  act  to  prove 
conclusively  that  he  was  head.  He  had,  at  times,  the 
unhappy  suspicion  that  an  outsider,  regarding  the  matter 
superficially,  might  be  led  to  conclude  that  Clare  held 
command..  He  found  that  if  he  interfered  at  all  in  fam- 
ily matters  this  suspicion  was  immediately  stren^hened, 
and  so  he  confined  himself  to  his  room  and  watered  dili- 
gently the  somewhat  stinted  crop  of  Illusions. 

Nevertheless  he  felt  the  necessity  of  some  prominent 
action  that  would  still  for  ever  his  suspicions  of  incom- 
petence and  would  afford  him  a  sure  foundation  on  which      i 
to  build  his  palace  of  self-complacency  and  personal  ap-      I 
preciation.     During  his  latter  years  he  had  regarded  him- 
self as  his  father's  probable  successor.     Harry  had  seemed 
a  very  long  way  off  in  IvTew  Zealand,  and  was,  eventually, 
an  improbable  myth,  for  Garrett  had  that  happy  quality 
bestowed  on  the  ostrich  of  sticking  his  head  into  the  sand  \ 
.of  imagination  and  boastfully  concluding  that  facts  were    \ 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  211 

not  there.  Harry  was  a  fact,  but  by  continuously  assert- 
ing that  ISTew  Zealand  was  a  long  way  off  and  that  Harry 
would  never  come  back,  Harry's  existence  became  a  very 
pleasant  fairy-story,  like  nautical  tales  of  the  sea-serpent 
and  the  Bewitching  Mermaid.  They  might  be  there, 
and  it  was  very  joleasant  to  listen  to  stories  about  them, 
but  they  had  no  real  bearing  on  life  as  he  knew  it. 

Harry's  return  had,  of  course,  shattered  this  bubble, 
and  Garrett  had  had  to  yield  all  hopes  of  eventual  suc- 
cession. He  had,  on  the  whole,  borne  it  very  well,  and 
had  come  to  the  .conclusion  that  succeeding  his  father 
would  have  entailed  the  performance  of  many  wearisome 
duties;  but  that  future  being  denied  him,  it  was  more 
than  ever  necessary  to  seize  some  opportunity  of  personal 
distinction. 

The  discussion  as  to  the  destruction  of  the  Cove  had 
seemed  to  offer  him  every  chance  of  attaining  a  prominent 
position.  The  matter  had  grown  in  importance  every  day. 
Pendragon  had  divided  into  separate  and  sharply-dis- 
tinguished camps,  one  standing  valiantly  by  its  standard 
of  picturesque  tradition  and  its  hatred  of  modern  noise 
and  materialism,  the  other  asserting  loudly  its  love  of 
utility  and  progress,  derisively  pointing  the  finger  of  scorn 
at  old-world  Conservatism  run  mad  and  an  incredible 
affection  for  defective  drainage.  Garrett  had  flung  him- 
self, heart  and  soul  (as  he  said),  into  the  latter  of  these 
parties,  and,  feeling  that  this  was  a  chance  of  distinction 
that  fortune  was  not  likely  to  offer  him  again  in  the  near 
future,  appeared  frequently  at  discussions  and  even  on 
one  occasion  in  the  Town  Hall  spoke. 

But  he  was  surprised  and  disappointed;  he  found  that 
he  had  nothing  to  say,  the  truth  being  that  he  was  much 


212  THE  WOODEN"  HORSE 

more  interested  in  Garrett  than  in  the  Cove,  and  that  his 
audience  had  come  to  listen  to  the  second  of  these  two 
subjects  rather  than  the  first.  He  found  himself  shelved ; 
he  was  most  politely  told  that  he  was  not  wanted ;  and  he 
retired  into  his  carpet-slippers  again  after  one  of  those 
terrible  quarters  of  an  hour  when  he  peeped  past  the  cur- 
tain and  saw  a  miserable,  naked  puj^pet  shivering  in  a 
grey  world,  and  that  puppet  was  Garrett  Trojan. 

Then  suddenly  a  second  opjDortunity  presented  itself. 
Robin's  trouble  was  unexpectedly  reassuring.     This,  he 
told  himself,  was  the  very  thing.     If  he  could  only  prove~ 
to  the  world  that  he  had  dealt  successfully  with  practical  / 
matters  in  a  practical  way,  he  need  never  worry  again.    ) 
Let  hini  deal  with  this  affair  promptly  and  resourcefully, 
as  a  man  of  the  world  and  a  true  Trojan,  and  his  position 
was  assured.     He  must  obtain  the  letters  and  at  once. 
He  spent  several  pleasant  hours  picturing  the  scene  in 
which  he  returned  the  letters  to  Robin.     He  knew  pre- 
cisely the  moment,  the  room,  the  audience  that  he  would 
choose — he  had  decided  on  the  words  that  he  would  speak, 
but  he  was  not  sure  yet  as  to  how  he  would  obtain  the 
letters. 

He  thought  over  it  for  three  days  and  came  to  no  con- 
clusion. It  ought  not  to  be  difficult;  the  girl  was  prob- 
ably one  of  those  common  adventuresses  of  whom  one 
heard  so  often.  He  had  never  actually  met  one — they 
did  not  suit  carpet-slippers — but  one  knew  how  to  deal 
with  them.  It  was  merely  a  matter  of  tact  and  savoir- 
faire. 

Yes,  it  would  be  fun  when  he  flourished  the  letters  in 
the  face  of  the  family;  how  amazed  Clare  would  be  and 
how  it  would  please  Robin ! — and  then  he  suddenly  awoke 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  213 

to  the  fact  that  time  was  getting  on,  and  that  he  had 
done  nothing.  And,  after  all,  there  were  only  two  pos- 
sible lines  of  action — to  write  or  to  seek  a  personal  inter- 
view. Of  these  he  infinitely  preferred  the  first.  He 
need  not  leave  his  room,  he  could  direct  operations  from 
his  arm-chair,  and  he  could  preserve  that  courtesy  and 
decorum  that  truly  befitted  a  Trojan.  But  he  had  grave 
fears  that  the  letter  would  not  be  accepted;  Robin's  had 
been  scorned  and  his  own  might  suffer  the  same  fate — 
no,  he  was  afraid  that  it  must  be  a  personal  interview. 

He  had  come  to  this  conclusion  reluctantly,  and  now 
he  hesitated  to  act  on  it;  she  might  be  violent,  and  he 
felt  that  he  could  not  deal  with  melodrama.  But  the 
thought  of  ultimate  victory  supported  him.  The  deli- 
cious surprise  of  it,  the  gratitude,  the  security  of  his 
authority  from  all  attack  for  the  rest  of  his  days!  Ah 
yes,  it  was  worth  it. 

He  dressed  carefully  in  a  suit  of  delicate  grey,  wear- 
ing, as  he  did  on  all  public  occasions,  an  eye-glass.  He 
took  some  time  over  his  preparations  and  drank  a  whisky 
and  soda  before  starting;  he  had  secured  the  address 
from  Eobin,  without,  he  flattered  himself,  any  discovery 
as  to  the  reason  of  his  request.  10  Seaview  Terrace !  Ah 
yes,  he  knew  where  that  was — a  gloomy  back  street,  quite 
a  fitting  place  for  such  an  affair! 

He  was  still  uncertain  as  to  the  plan  of  campaign,  but 
he  could  not  conceive  it  credible  that  any  young  woman 
in  any  part  of  the  British  Empire  would  stand  up  long 
against  a  Trojan — it  would,  he  felt  certain,  prove  easy. 

He  noticed  with  pleasure  the  attention  paid  to  him 
by  the  down-at-heels  servant — it  was  good  augury  for  the 
success  of  the  interview.     He  lowered  his  voice  to  a  deep 


214  THE  WOODED  HOESE 

bass  whilst  asking  for  Miss.  Feverel,  and  he  fixed  his 
eyeglass  at  a  more  strikingly  impressive  angle.  He  looked 
at  women  from  four  points  of  view,  and  he  had,  as  it 
were,  a  sliding  scale  of  manners  on  which  he  might  mark 
delicately  his  percejDtion  of  their  position.  There  was 
firstly  the  Countess,  or  Titled  JSTobility.  Here  his  man- 
ner was  slightly  deferential,  and  at  the  same  time  a  little 
familiar — proof  of  his  own  good  breeding. 

Secondly,  there  was  the  Trojan,  or  the  lady  of  As- 
sured Position.  Here  he  was  quite  familiar,  and  at  the 
same  time  just  a  little  patronising — proof  of  his  sense 
of  Trojan  superiority. 

Thirdly,  there  was  the  Governess,  or  Poor  Gentility 
Position.  To  members  of  this  class  he  was  affably  kind, 
conveying  his  sense  of  their  merits  and  sympathy  with 
their  struggle  against  poverty,  but  nevertheless  marking 
quite  plainly  the  gulf  fixed  between  him  and  them. 

Fourthly,  there  were  the  Impossibles,  or  the  Eest — 
ranging  from  the  wives  of  successful  Brewers  to  that 
class  known  as  Unfortunate.  Here  there  was  no  alter- 
ation in  his  manner;  he  was  stern,  and  short,  and  stiff 
with  all  of  them,  and  the  reason  of  their  existence  was 
one  of  the  unsolved  problems  that  had  always  puzzled 
him.  This  woman  would,  of  course,  belong  to  this  latter 
class — he  drew  himself  up  haughtily  as  he  entered  the 
drawing-room. 

Dahlia  Feverel  was  alone,  seated  working  in  the  win- 
dow. Life  was  beginning  to  offer  attractions  to  her  again. 
The  thought  of  work  was  pleasing;  she  had  decided  to 
go  in  for  nursing,  and  she  began  to  see  Eobin  in  a  clear, 
true  light;  she  was  even  beginning  to  admit  that  he  had 
been  right,  that  their  marriage  would  have  been  a  great 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  215 

mistake.  The  announcement  of  Garrett  Trojan  took  her 
by  surprise — she  gathered  her  work  together  and  rose,  her 
brain    refusing    to    act    consecutively.     He    wanted,    of 

course,  the  letters — well,   she  had  not  got  them 

It  promised  to  be  rather  amusing. 

And  he  on  his  side  was  surprised.  He  had  expected 
a  woman  with  frizzled  hair  and  a  dress  of  violent  colours ; 
he  saw  a  slender,  pale  girl  in  black,  and  she  looked  rather 
more  of  a  lady  than  he  had  expected.  He  was,  in  spit© 
of  himself,  confused.     He  began  hurriedly — 

"  I  am  Mr.  Garrett  Trojan — I  daresay  you  have  heard 
of  me  from  my  nephew — Robin — Robert — with  whom,  I 
believe,  you  are  acquainted,  Miss — ah — Feverel.  I 
have  come  on  his  behalf  to  request  the  return  of  some 
letters  that  he  wrote  to  you  during  the  summer." 

He  drew  a  breath  and  paused.  Well,  that  was  all  right 
anyhow,  and  quite  sufficiently  business-like. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Trojan?"  she  said,  smil- 
ing at  him.  "  It  is  good  of  you  to  have  taken  so  much 
trouble  simply  about  a  few  letters — and  you  really  might 
have  written,  mightn't  you,  and  saved  yourself  a  personal 
visit  ?  " 

He  refused  to  sit  down  and  drew  himself  up.  "  Kow 
I  warn  you.  Miss  Feverel,"  he  said,  "  that  this  is  no 
laughing  matter.  You  are  doing  a  very  foolish  thing  in 
keeping  the  letters — very  foolish — ah  !  um !  You  must, 
of  course,  see  that — exceedingly  foolish !  " 

He  came  to  a  pause.  It  was  really  rather  difficult 
to  know  what  to  sav  next. 

"Ah,  Mr  Trojan,"  she  answered,  "you  must  leave 
me  to  judge  about  the  foolishness  of  it.  After  all,  they 
are  my  letters." 


216  THE  WOODEJST  HOKSE 

"  Pure  waste  of  time,"  he  answered,  his  voice  getting 
a  little  shrill.  "  After  all,  there  can  be  no  question  about 
it.  We  must  have  the  letters — we  are  ready  to  go  to 
some  lengths  to  obtain  them — even — ah,  um — money " 

"  Now,  Mr  Trojan,"  she  said  quickly,  "  you  are  scarcely 
polite.  But  I  am  sure  that  you  will  see  no  reason  for 
prolonging  this  interview  when  I  say  that,  under  no  cir- 
cumstances whatever,  can  I  return  the  letters.  That  is 
my  unchanging  decision." 

He  had  no  words;  he  stared  at  her,  dumb  with  aston- 
ishment. This  open  defiance  was  the  very  last  thing 
that  he  had  expected.     Then,  at  last — 

"  You  refuse  ?  "  he  said  with  a  little  gasp. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  lightly,  "  and  I  cannot  see  any- 
thing very  astonishing  in  my  refusal.  They  are  my  prop- 
erty, and  it  is  nobody  else's  business  at  all." 

"  But  it  is,"  he  almost  screamed.  "  Business !  Why, 
I  should  think  it  was !  Do  you  think  we  want  to  have 
a  scandal  throughout  the  kingdom  ?  Do  you  imagine 
that  it  would  be  pleasant  for  us  to  have  our  name  in  all 
the  papers — our  name  that  has  never  known  disgrace 
since  the  days  of  William  the  Conqueror  ?  You  can 
have,"  he  added  solemnly,  "  very  little  idea  of  the  value 
of  a  name  if  you  imagine  that  we  are  going  to  tolerate 
its  abuse  in  this  fashion.     Dear  me,  no !  " 

He  was  growing  quite  red  at  the  thought  of  his  pos- 
sible failure.  The  things  in  the  room  annoyed  him — 
the  everlastings  rustling  on  the  mantelpiece — a  staring 
photograph  of  Mr.  Feverel,  deceased,  that  seemed  to  fol- 
low him,  protestingly,  round  and  round  the  room — a  cor- 
ner of  a  dusty  grey  road  seen  dimly  through  dirty  window- 
panes;  why  did  people  live  in  such  a  place — or,  rather, 


THE  WOODEN"  HORSE  217 

why  did  such  people  live  at  all  ? — and  to  think  that  it  was 
people  like  that  who  dared  to  threaten  Trojan  honour! 
How  could  Robin  have  been  such  a  fool! 

So,  feeling  that  the  situation  was  so  absurd  that  argu- 
ment was  out  of  place,  he  began  to  bluster — 

"  Come  now,  Miss  Feverel ! — this  won't  do,  you  know ! 
it  won't  really.  It's  too  absurd — quite  ridiculous.  Why, 
you  forget  altogether  who  the  Trojans  are!  Why, 
we've  been  years  and  years — hundreds  of  years!  You 
can't  intend  to  oppose  institutions  of  that  kind!  Why — 
it's  impossible — you  don't  realise  what  you're  doing. 
Dear  me,  no!  Why,  the  whole  thing's  fantastic — "  and 
then  rather  lamely,  "  You'll  be  sorry,  you  know." 

She  had  been  listening  to  him  with  amusement.  It 
was  pleasant  to  have  the  family  on  its  knees  like  this 
after  its  treatment  of  her.  He  was  saying,  too,  very 
many  of  the  things  that  his  brother  had  said,  but  how 
different  it  was! 

"  You  know,  Mr.  Trojan,"  she  said,  "that  I  can't  help 
feeling  that  you  are  making  rather  a  lot  of  it.  After 
all,  I  haven't  said  that  I'm  going  to  do  anything  with  the 
letters,  have  I? — simply  keep  them,  and  that,  I  think, 
I  am  quite  entitled  to  do.  And  really  my  mind  won't 
change  about  that — I  cannot  give  them  to  you." 

"  Cannot !  "  he  retorted  eagerly.  "  Why,  it's  easy 
enough.  You  know,  Miss  Feverel,  it  won't  do  to  play 
with  me.  I'm  a  man  of  the  world  and  fencing  won't  do, 
you  know — not  a  bit  of  it.  When  I  say  I  mean  to  have 
the  letters,  I  mean  to  have  them,  and — ah,  um — that's 
all  about  it.  It  won't  do  to  fence,  you  know,"  he  said 
again. 

"  But  I'm  not  fencing,  Mr.  Trojan,  I'm  saying  quite 


218  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

plainly  what  is  perfectly  true,  that  I  cannot  let  you  have 
the  letters — nothing  that  you  can  say  will  change  my 
mind." 

And  he  really  didn't  know  what  to  say.  He  didn't 
want  to  have  a  scene — he  shrunk  timidly  from  violence 
of  any  kind ;  but  he  really  must  secure  the  letters.  How 
they  would  laugh  at  the  Club!  Why,  he  could  hear  the 
guffaws  of  all  Pendragon!  London  would  be  one  enor- 
mous scream  of  laughter ! — all  Europe  would  be  amused ! 
and  to  his  excited  fancy  Asia  and  Africa  seemed  to  join 
the  chorus!  A  Trojan  and  a  common  girl  in  a  breach  of 
promise  case!     A  Trojan! 

"  I  say,"  he  stammered,  "  you  don't  know  how  serious 
it  is.  People  will  laugh,  you  know,  if  you  bring  the 
case  on.  Of  course  it  was  silly  of  him — Robin,  I  mean, 
I  can't  conceive  myself  how  he  ever  came  to  do  such  a 
thing.  Boys  will  be  boys,  and  you're  rather  pretty,  my 
dear.  But,  bless  me,  if  we  were  to  take  all  these  little 
things  seriously,  why,  where  would  some  of  us  be  ? " 
He  paused,  and  hinted  impressively  at  a  hideous  past. 
"  You  are  attractive,  you  know."  He  looked  at  her  in 
his  most  flattering  manner — "  Quite  a  nice  girl,  only  you 
shouldn't  take  it  seriously — really  you   shouldn't." 

This  manner  of  speech  was  a  great  deal  more  offensive 
than  the  other,  and  Dahlia  got  up,  her  cheeks  flushed — 

"  That  is  enough,  Mr.  Trojan.  I  think  this  had  better 
come  to  an  end.  I  can  only  repeat  what  I  have  said 
already,  that  I  cannot  give  you  the  letters — and,  indeed, 
if  I  had  ever  intended  to  do  so,  your  last  speech,  at 
least,  would  have  changed  my  mind — I  am  sorry  that  I 
cannot  oblige  you,  but  there  is  really  nothing  further  to 
be  said." 


THE  WOODEN"  HOESE  219 

He  tried  to  stammer  something;  he  faced  her  for  a 
moment  and  endeavoured  to  be  indignant,  and  then,  to 
his  own  intense  astonishment,  found  that  he  was  walk- 
ing down  the  stairs  with  the  drawing-room  door  closed 
behind  him.  How  amazing! — but  he  had  done  his  best, 
and,  if  he  had  failed,  why,  after  all,  no  other  man  could 
have  succeeded  any  better.  And  she  really  was  rather 
bewitching — he  had  not  expected  anything  quite  like  that. 
What  had  he  expected  ?  He  did  not  know,  but  he  thought 
of  his  softly-carpeted,  nicely-cushioned  room  with  pleasur- 
able anticipation.  He  would  fling  himself  into  his  book 
when  he  got  back.  ...  he  had  several  rather  neat  ideas. 
.  .  .  He  noticed,  with  pleasure,  that  the  young  man  stand- 
ing by  the  door  of  Mead's  Groceries  touched  his  hat  very 
respectfully,  and  Twitchett,  his  tailor,  bowed.  Come, 
come !  There  were  a  few  people  left  who  had  some  sense 
of  Trojan  supremacy.  It  wasn't  such  a  bad  world !  He 
would  have  tea  in  his  room — not  with  Clare — and  crum- 
pets— yes,  he  liked  crumpets. 

Dahlia  went  back  to  her  work  with  a  sigh.  What, 
she  wondered,  would  be  the  next  move  ?  It  had  not  been 
quite  so  amusing  as  she  had  expected,  but  it  had  been  a 
little  more  exciting.  For  she  had  a  curious  feeling  in 
it  all,  that  she  was  fighting  Harry  Trojan's  battles.  These 
were  the  people  that  had  insulted  him  just  as  they  had  in- 
sulted her,  and  now  they  would  have  to  pay  for  it,  they 
would  have  to  go  to  him  as  they  had  gone  to  her  and 
crawl  on  their  knees.  But  what  a  funny  situation! 
That  she  should  play  the  son  for  the  father,  and  that  she 
should  be  able  to  look  at  her  own  love  affair  so  calmly! 
Poor  Robin — he  had  taught  her  a  great  deal,  and  now 


220  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

it  was  time  for  him  to  learn  his  own  lesson.  Eor  her  the 
episode  was  closed  and  she  was  looking  forward  to  the 
future.  She  would  work  and  win  her  way  and  have 
done  with  sentiment.  Friendship  was  the  right  thing — 
the  thing  that  the  world  was  meant  for — but  Love — Ah! 
that  wounded  so  much  more  than  it  blessed ! 

But  she  was  to  have  further  experiences — the  Trojan 
family  had  not  done  with  her  yet.  Garrett  had  been  ab- 
sent barely  more  than  half-an-hour  when  the  servant  again 
appeared  at  the  door  with,  "  Miss  Trojan,  Miss  Dahlia, 
would  like  to  see  yer  and  is  waiting  in  the  'all."  Her 
hand  twitching  at  her  apron  and  mouth  gaping  with  as- 
tonishment testified  to  her  curiosity.  For  weeks  the  house 
had  been  unvisited  and  now,  in  a  single  day — ! 

"  Show  her  up,  Annie !  " 

She  was  a  little  agitated;  Garrett  had  been  simple 
enough  and  even  rather  amusing,  but  Clare  Trojan  was 
quite  another  thing.  She  was,  Dahlia  knew,  the  head 
of  the  family  and  a  woman  of  the  world.  But  Dahlia 
clenched  her  teeth;  it  was  this  person  who  was  respon- 
sible for  the  whole  affair — for  the  father's  unhappiness, 
for  the  son's  disloyalty.  It  was  she  who  had  been,  as  it 
were,  behind  Robin's  halting  speeches  concerning  inequal- 
ity and  one's  duty  to  the  family — it  was  the  head  of  the 
House,  and  Dahlia  held  the  cards. 

But  Clare  was  very  calm  and  collected  as  she  entered 
the  room.  She  had  decided  that  a  personal  interview  was 
necessary,  but  had  rather  regretted  that  it  could  not  be 
conducted  by  letter.  But  still  if  you  had  to  deal  with 
that  kind  of  person  you  must  put  up  with  their  methods, 
and  having  once  made  up  her  mind  about  a  thing  she 
never  turned  back. 


THE  WOODEN"  HORSE  221 

She  hated  the  young  person  more  bitterly  than  she 
had  ever  hated  any  one,  and  she  would  have  heard  of  her 
death  with  no  shadow  of  pity  but  rather  a  great  rejoicing. 
In  the  first  place,  the  woman  had  come  between  Clare  and 
Eobin;  secondly,  she  threatened  the  good  name  of  the 
family ;  thirdly,  she  was  forcing  Clare  to  do  several  things 
that  she  very  much  disliked  doing.  For  all  these  reasons 
the  young  person  was  too  bad  to  live — but  she  had  no 
intention  of  being  uncivil.  Although  this  was  her  first 
experience  of  diplomacy,  she  had  very  definite  ideas  as 
to  how  such  things  ought  to  be  conducted,  and  civility 
would  hide  a  multitude  of  subtleties.  Clare  meant  to  be 
very  subtle,  very  kind,  and,  once  the  letters  were  in  her 
hand,  very  unrelenting. 

She  was  wearing  a  very  handsome  dress  of  grey  silk 
with  a  large  picture  hat  with  grey  feathers;  she  entered 
the  room  with  a  rustle,  and  the  sweep  of  the  skirts  spoke 
of  infinite  condescension. 

"  Miss  Eeverel,  I  believe — "  she  held  out  her  hand — 
"  I  am  afraid  this  is  a  most  unceremonious  hour  for  a  call, 
and  if  I  have  interrupted  you  in  your  work,  pray  go  on. 
I  wouldn't  for  the  world.  What  a  day,  hasn't  it  been? 
I  always  think  that  these  sort  of  grey  depressing  days  are 
so  much  worse  than  the  dovmright  pouring  ones,  don't 
you?  You  are  always  expecting,  you  know,  and  then 
nothing  ever  comes." 

Dahlia  looked  rather  nervous  in  the  window,  and  on 
her  face  there  fluttered  a  rather  uncertain  smile. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  a  little  timidly;  "but  I  think  that 
most  of  the  days  here  are  grey." 

"  Ah,  you  find  that,  do  you  ?  Well,  now,  that's  strange, 
because  I  must  say  that  I  haven't  found  that  my  own  ex- 


222  THE  WOODElSr  HORSE 

perience — and  Cornwall,  you  know,  is  said  to  be  the  land  of 
colour — the  English  Riviera  some,  rather  prettily,  call 
it — and  St.  Ives,  you  know,  along  the  coast  is  quite  a 
place  for  painters  because  of  the  colour  that  they  get 
there." 

Dahlia  said  "  Yes,"  and  there  was  a  pause.  Then  Clare 
made  her  plunge. 

"  You  must  wonder  a  little.  Miss  Feverel,  what  I  have 
come  about.  I  really  must  apologise  again  about  the 
hour.  But  I  won't  keep  you  more  than  a  moment;  and 
it  is  all  quite  a  trivial  matter — so  trivial  that  I  am  ashamed 
to  disturb  you  about  it.  I  would  have  written,  but  I  hap- 
pened to  be  passing  and — so — I  came  in." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Dahlia. 

"  Well,  it's  about  some  letters.  Perhaps  you  have  for- 
gotten that  my  nephew,  Robert  Trojan,  wrote  to  you  last 
summer.  He  tells  me  that  you  met  last  summer  at  Cam- 
bridge and  became  rather  well  acquainted,  and  that  after 
that  he  wrote  to  you  for  several  months.  He  tells  me  that 
he  wrote  to  you  asking  you  to  return  his  letters,  and  that 
you,  doubtless  through  forgetfulness,  failed  to  reply.  He 
is  naturally  a  little  nervous  about  writing  to  you  again, 
and  so  I  thought  that — as  I  was  passing — I  would  just 
come  and  see  you  about  the  matter.  But  I  am  really 
ashamed  to  bother  you  about  any  thing  so  trivial." 

"  No,"  answered  Dahlia,  "  I  didn't  forget — I  wrote — 
answered  Robin's  letter." 

"  Ah !  you  did  ?  Then  he  must  have  misunderstood 
you.     He  certainly  gave  me  to  understand " 

"  Yes,  I  wrote  to  Robin  saying  that  I  was  sorry — but 
I  intended  to  keep  the  letters." 

Clare  paused   and  looked  at  her  sharply.     This  was 


THE  WOODEN"  HOESE  223 

the  kind  of  thing  that  she  had  expected;  of  course  the 
young  person  would  bkiff  and  stand  out  for  a  tall  price, 
which  must,  if  necessary,  be  paid  to  her. 

"  But,  Miss  Eeverel,  surely — "  she  smiled  deprecatingly 
— "  that  can't  be  your  definite  answer  to  him.  Poor 
Kobin! — surely  he  is  entitled  to  letters  that  he  himself 
has  written." 

"Might  I  ask,  Miss  Trojan,  why  you  are  anxious  that 
they  should  be  returned  ?  " 

"  Oh,  merely  a  whim — nothing  of  any  importance. 
But  Robin  feels,  as  I  am  sure  you  must,  that  the  whole 
episode — pleasant  enough  at  the  time,  no  doubt — is  over, 
and  he  feels  that  it  would  be  more  completely  closed  if 
the  letters  were  destroyed." 

"  Ah !  but  there  we  differ ! "  said  Dahlia  sharply. 
"  That's  just  what  I  don't  feel  about  it.  I  value  those 
letters.  Miss  Trojan,  highly." 

ISTow  what,  thought  Clare,  exactly  was  she?  [N'umber 
One,  the  intriguing  adventuress  '^  IsTumber  Two,  the  out- 
raged woman  ?  Number  Three,  the  helpless  girl  cling- 
ing to  her  one  support  ?  Now,  of  Numbers  One  and  Two 
Clare  had  had  no  experience.  Such  persons  had  never 
come  her  way,  and  indeed  of  Number  Three  she  could 
know  very  little;  so  she  escaped  from  generalities  and 
fixed  her  mind  on  the  actual  girl  in  front  of  her.  This 
was  most  certainly  no  intriguing  adventuress.  Clare 
had  quite  definite  ideas  about  that  class  of  person;  but 
she  very  possibly  was  the  outraged  female.  At  any  rate, 
she  would  act  on  that  conclusion. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  she  said  softly,  "  you  must 
not  think  that  I  do  not  sympathise.  I  do  indeed,  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart.     Robin  has  behaved  abominably, 


224  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

and  any  possible  reparation  we,  as  a  family,  will  gladly 
pay.  I  think,  however,  that  you  are  a  little  hard  on  him. 
He  was  young,  so  were  you ;  and  it  is  very  easy  for  us —  j 
we  women  especially — to  mistake  the  reality  of  our  af- 
fection. Robin  at  any  rate  made  a  mistake  and  saw  it — 
and  frankly  told  you  so.  It  was  wrong — very ;  but  I  can- 
not help  feeling — forgive  me  if  I  speak  rather  plainly 
— that  it  would  be  equally  wrong  on  your  part  if  you 
were  to  indulge  any  feeling  of  revenge." 

"  There  is  not,"  said  Dahlia,  "  any  question  of  re- 
venge." 

"  Ah,"  said  Clare  brightly,  "  you  will  let  me  have  the 
letters,  then  ?  " 

"  I  cannot,"  Dahlia  answered  gravely.  "  Really,  Miss 
Trojan,  I'm  afraid  that  we  can  gain  nothing  by  further 
discussion.  I  have  looked  at  the  matter  from  every  point 
of  view,  and  I'm  afraid  that  I  can  come  to  no  other  de- 


cision." 


Clare  stared  in  front  of  her.  What  was  to  be  her 
next  move  ?  Like  Garrett,  she  had  been  brought  to  a 
standstill  by  Dahlia's  direct  refusal.  Viewing  the  matter 
indefinitely,  from  the  security  of  her  own  room,  it  had 
seemed  to  her  that  the  girl  would  be  certain  to  give  way 
at  the  very  mention  of  the  Trojan  name.  She  would 
face  Robin — yes,  that  was  natural  enough,  because,  after 
all,  he  was  only  a  boy  and  had  no  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  the  proper  treatment  of  such  a  case, — but  when  it 
came  to  the  head  of  the  family  with  all  the  influence  of 
the  family  behind  her,  then  instant  submission  seemed 
inevitable. 

Clare  was  forced  to  realise  that  instant  submission  was 
very  far  away  indeed,  and  that  the  girl  sitting  quietly  in 


THE  WOODEJST  HORSE  225 

tlie  "window  showed  little  sign  of  yielding.  She  sat  up  a 
little  straighter  in  her  chair  and  her  voice  was  a  little 
sharper. 

"  It  seems  then,  Miss  Eeverel,  that  it  is  a  question  of 
terms.  But  why  did  you  not  say  so  before?  I  would 
have  told  you  at  once  that  we  are  willing  to  pay  a  very 
considerable  sum  for  the  return  of  the  letters." 

Dahlia's  face  flushed,  and  after  a  moment's  pause  she 
rose  from  her  chair  and  walked  towards  Clare. 

"Miss  Trojan,"  she  said  quietly,  "I  have  no  intention 
of  taking  money  for  them — or,  indeed,  of  taking  any- 
thing." 

"  I'm  sure,"  broke  in  Clare,  flushing  slightly,  "  I  had 
no  intention  of " 

"  Ah — no,  I  know,"  went  on  Dahlia.  "  But  it  is  not, 
I  assure  you,  a  case  of  melodrama — but  a  very  plain, 
simple  little  affair  that  is  happening  ever^^where  all  the 
time.  You  say  that  you  cannot  understand  why  I  should 
wish  to  keep  the  letters.  Let  me  try  and  explain,  and  also 
let  me  try  and  urge  on  you  that  it  is  really  no  good  at 
all  trying  to  change  my  mind.  It  is  now  several  days 
since  I  had  my  last  talk  with  Robin,  and  I  have,  of  course, 
thought  a  good  deal  about  it — it  is  scarcely  likely  that 
half-an-hour's  conversation  with  you  will  change  a  deter- 
mination that  I  have  arrived  at  after  ten  days'  hard 
thinking.  And  surely  it  is  not  hard  to  understand.  Six 
months  ago  I  was  happy  and  inexperienced.  I  had  never 
been  in  love,  and,  indeed,  I  had  no  idea  of  its  meaning. 
Then  your  nephew  came :  he  made  love  to  me,  and  I  loved 
him  in  return." 

She  paused  for  a  moment.  Clare  looked  sympathetic. 
Then  Dahlia  continued :     "  He  meant  no  harm,  no  doubt, 


226  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

and  perhaps  for  the  time  lie  was  quite  serious  in  what 
he  said.  He  was,  as  you  say,  very  young.  But  it  was 
a  game  to  him — it  was  everything  to  me.  I  treasured 
his  letters,  I  thought  of  them  day  and  night.  I — but, 
of  course,  you  know  the  kind  of  thing  that  a  girl  goes 
through  when  she  is  in  love  for  the  first  time.  Then 
I  came  here  and  went  through  some  bad  weeks  whilst 
he  was  making  up  his  mind  to  tell  me  that  he  loved  me 
no  longer.  Of  course,  I  saw  well  enough  what  was  hap- 
pening— and  I  knew  why  it  was — it  was  the  family  at 
his  back." 

A  murmur  from  Clare.     "  I  assure  you,  Miss  Eeverel." 
"  Oh  yes,  Miss  Trojan,  you  don't  suppose  that  I  cared 
for  you  very  much  during  those  weeks.     I   suffered   a 
little,  too,  and  it  changed  me  from  a  girl  into  a  woman 
— rather  too  quickly  to  be  altogether  healthy,  perhaps. 
And  then  he  came  and  told  me  in  so  many  words.     I    ^ 
thought  at  first  that  it  had  broken  my  heart;  a  girl  does, 
you  know,  when  it  happens  the  first  time,  but  you  needn't 
be  afraid — my  heart's  all  right — and  I  wouldn't  marry 
Robin  now  if  he  begged  me  to.     But  it  had  hurt,  all  of  i 
it,   and  perhaps  one's  pride  had  suffered  most  of  all —  | 
and  so,  of  course,  I  kept  the  letters.     It  was  the  one  way 
that  I  could  hurt  you.     I'm  frank,  am  I  not  ? — but  every 
woman  would  do  the  same.     You  see  you  are  so  very 
proud,  you  Trojans! 

.  "  It  is  not  only  that  you  thank  God  that  you  are  not  \ 
as  other  men,  but  you  are  so  bent  on  making  the  rest  I 
of  us  call  out '  Miserable  sinner ! '  very  loudly  and  humbly.  / 
And  we  don't  believe  it.  Why  should  we?  Everybody 
has  their  own  little  bits  o'  things  that  they  treasure,  and 
they  don't  like  being  told  that  they're  of  no  value  at  all. 


THE  WOODE^^  HOESE  227 

Why,  Miss  Trojan,  I'm  quite  a  proud  person  really — you'd 
be  surprised  if  you  knew." 

She  laughed,  and  then  sat  down  on  the  sofa  opposite 
Clare,  with  her  chin  resting  on  her  hand. 

"  So  you  see,  Miss  Trojan,  it's  natural,  after  all,  that 
I  kept  the  letters." 

Clare  had  listened  to  the  last  part  of  her  speech  in  silence, 
her  lips  firmly  closed,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap.  As 
she  listened  to  her  she  knew  that  it  was  quite  hopeless, 
that  nothing  that  she  could  ever  say  would  change  the 
young  person's  mind.  She  was  dreadfully  disappointed, 
of  course,  and  it  would  be  terrible  to  be  forced  to  return 
to  Robin,  and  tell  him  that  she  had  failed:  for  the  first 
time  she  would  have  to  confess  failure — but  really  she 
could  not  humble  herself  any  longer :  she  was  not  sure  that, 
even  now,  she  had  not  unbent  a  little  more  than  was  neces- 
sary. If  the  young  person  refused  to  consider  the  ques- 
tion of  terms  there  was  no  more  to  be  said — and  how 
dare  she  talk  about  the  Trojans  in  that  way? 

"  Eeally,  Miss  Feverel,  I  scarcely  think  that  it  is  neces- 
sary for  us  to  enter  into  a  discussion  of  that  kind,  is  it  ? 
I  daresay  you  have  every  reason  for  personal  pride — but 
really  that  is  scarcely  my  affair,  is  it  ?  If  no  offer  of 
money  can  tempt  you — well,  really,  there  the  matter  must 
rest,  mustn't  it  ?  Of  course  I  am  sorry,  but  you  know 
your  own  mind.  But  that  you  should  think  yourself  in- 
sulted by  such  an  offer  is,  it  seems  to  me,  a  little  absurd. 
It  is  quite  obvious  what  you  mean  to  do  with  them." 

Dahlia  smiled. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  she  said.  "  That  is  very  clever  of  you,  Miss 
Trojan.  I  am  sorry  that  you  should  have  so  much 
trouble  for  such  a  little  result." 


228  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

"  There  is  no  more  to  be  said/'  answered  Clare,  mov- 
ing to  the  door.     "  Good  morning,"  and  she  was  gone. 

"  Oh  dear/'  said  Dahlia,  as  she  went  back  to  the  win- 
dow, "how  unpleasant  she  is.  Poor  Eobin!  What  a 
time  he  will  have !  " 

For  her  the  pathos  was  over,  but  for  them — well — it 
had  not  begun. 


GHAPTEE  XII 

THE  question  of  the  Cove  was  greatly  agitating  the 
mind  of  Pendragon.  Meetings  had  been  held,  a 
scheme  had  been  drawn  up,  and  it  would  appear  that 
the  thing  was  as  good  as  settled.  It  had  been  conclusively 
proved  that  two  rows  of  lodging-houses  where  the  Cove 
now  stood  would  be  an  excellent  thing.  The  town  was 
overcrowded — it  must  spread  out  in  some  direction,  and 
the  Cove-end  was  practically  the  only  possible  place  for 
spreading. 

The  fishery  had  been  declining  year  by  year,  and  it 
was  hinted  at  the  Club  that  it  would  be  rather  a  good 
thing  if  it  declined  until  it  vanished  altogether ;  the  Cove 
was  in  no  sense  of  the  word  useful,  and  by  its  lack  of 
suitable  drainage  and  defective  protection  from  weather, 
it  was  really  something  of  a  scandal — it  formed,  as  Mr. 
Grayseed,  pork  butcher  and  mayor  of  the  town,  pointed 
out,  the  most  striking  contrast  with  the  upward  develop- 
ment so  marked  in  Pendragon  of  late  years.  He  called 
the  Cove  an  "  eyesore "  and  nearly  proclaimed  it  an 
"  anomaly" — but  was  restrained  by  the  presence  of  his 
wife,  a  nervous  woman  who  followed  her  husband  with 
difficulty  in  his  successful  career,  and  checked  his  lan- 
guage when  the  length  of  his  words  threatened  their 
safety. 

The  town  might  be  said  to  be  at  one  on  these  points, 
and  there  was  no  very  obvious  reason  why  the  destruction 

229 


230  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

of  the  Cove  sliould  not  be  proceeded  with — but,  still,  noth- 
ing was  done.  It  was  said  by  a  few  that  the  Cove  was 
picturesque  and  undoubtedly  attracted  strangers  by  the 
reason  of  its  dirty,  crooked  streets  and  bulging  doorways 
— an  odd  taste,  they  admitted,  but  nevertheless  undoubted 
and  of  commercial  importance.  On  posters  Pendragon  was 
described  as  "  the  picturesque  abode  of  old-time  manners 
and  customs,"  and  Baedeker  had  a  word  about  "  charm- 
ing old-time  byways  and  an  old  Inn,  the  haunt,  in  earlier 
times,  of  smugglers  and  freebooters."  Now  this  was  un- 
doubtedly valuable,  and  it  would  be  rather  a  pity  if  it 
was  swept  away  altogether.  Perhaps  you  might  keep 
the  Inn — it  might  even  be  made  into  a  Museum  for 
relics  of  old  Pendragon — ^bits  of  Cornish  crosses,  stones, 
some  quaint  drawings  of  the  old  town,  now  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Mr.  Quilter,  the  lawyer. 

The  matter  was  much  discussed  at  the  Club,  and  there 
was  no  doubt  as  to  the  feeling  of  the  majority;  let  the 
Cove  go — let  them  replace  it  with  a  smart  row  of  red- 
brick villas,  each  with  its  neat  strip  of  garden  and  hand- 
some wooded  paling. 

Harry  had  learnt  to  listen  in  silence.  He  knew,  for 
one  thing,  that  no  one  would  pay  very  much  attention  if 
he  did  speak,  and  then,  of  late,  he  had  been  flung  very 
much  into  himself  and  his  reserve  had  grown  from  day 
to  day.  People  did  not  want  to  listen  to  him — well,  he 
would  not  trouble  them.  He  felt,  too,  as  Newsome  had 
once  said  to  him,  that  he  belonged  properly  to  "  down- 
along,"  and  he  knew  that  he  was  out  of  touch  with  the 
whole  of  that  modern  movement  that  was  going  on  around 
him.  But  sometimes,  as  he  listened,  his  cheeks  burned 
when  they  talked  of  the  Cove,  and  he  longed  to  jump  up 


THE  WOODED  HOESE  231 

and  plead  its  defence ;  but  he  knew  that  it  would  be  worse 
than  useless  and  he  held  himself  in — but  they  didn't  know, 
they  didn't  know.  It  enraged  him  most  when  they  spoke 
of  it  as  some  lifeless,  abstract  thing,  some  old  rubbish- 
heap  that  offended  their  sight,  and  then  he  thought  of 
its  beauties,  of  the  golden  sand  and  the  huddling  red  and 
grey  cottages  clustering  over  the  sea  as  though  for  pro- 
tection. You  might  fancy  that  the  waves  slapped  them 
on  the  back  for  good-fellowship  when  they  dashed  up 
against  the  walls,  or  kissed  them  for  love  when  they  ran 
in  golden  ripples  and  softly  lapped  the  stones. 

On  the  second  night  after  his  visit  to  Dahlia  Feverel, 
Harry  went  down,  after  dinner,  to  the  Cove.  He  found 
those  evening  hours,  before  going  to  bed,  intolerable  at  the 
House.  The  others  departed  to  their  several  rooms  and 
he  was  suifered  to  go  to  his,  but  the  loneliness  and  drear- 
iness made  reading  impossible  and  his  thoughts  drove  him 
out.  He  had  lately  been  often  at  the  Inn,  for  this  was 
the  hour  when  it  was  full,  and  he  could  sit  in  a  corner 
and  listen  without  being  forced  to  take  any  part  himself. 
To-night  a  pedlar  and  a  girl — apparently  his  daughter — 
were  entertaining  the  company,  and  even  the  melancholy 
sailor  with  one  eye  seemed  to  share  the  feeling  of  gaiety 
and  chuckled  solemnly  at  long  intervals.  It  was  a  scene 
full  of  colour;  the  lamps  in  the  window  shone  golden 
through  the  haze  of  smoke  on  to  the  black  beams  of  the 
ceiling,  the  dust-red  brick  of  the  walls  and  floor,  and  the 
cavernous  depths  of  the  great  fireplace.  Sitting  cross- 
legged  on  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  was  the 
pedlar,  a  little,  dark,  beetle-browed  man,  and  at  his  side 
were  his  wares,  his  pack  flung  open,  and  clothes  of  green 
and  gold  and  blue  and  red  flung  pell-mell  at  his  side. 


232  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

Leaning  against  the  table,  her  hands  on  her  hips,  was  the 
girl,  dark  like  her  father,  tall  and  flat-chested,  with  a  mass 
of  black  hair  flung  back  from  her  forehead.  No  one  knew 
from  what  place  they  had  come  nor  whither  they  intended 
to  go — such  a  visit  was  rare  enough  in  these  days  of  trains 
and  electric  trams — and  the  little  man's  reticence  was  at- 
tacked again  and  again,  but  ever  unsuccessfully.  There 
were  perhaps  twenty  sailors  in  the  room,  and  they  sat  or 
stood  by  the  fireplace  watching  and  listening. 

Harry  slipped  in  and  took  his  place  by  Newsome  in  the 
corner. 

"  I  will  sing,"  said  the  girl. 

She  stood  away  from  the  table  and  flung  up  her  head — 
Bhe  looked  straight  into  the  fire  and  swayed  her  body  to 
the  time  of  her  tune.  Her  voice  was  low,  so  that  men  bent 
forward  in  order  that  they  might  hear,  and  the  tune  was 
almost  a  monotone,  her  voice  rising  and  falling  like  the 
beating  of  the  sea,  with  the  character  of  her  words.  She 
sang  of  a  Cornish  pirate,  Coppinger,  "  Cruel  Coppinger," 
and  of  his  deeds  by  land  and  sea,  of  his  daring  and  his 
cleverness  and  his  brutality,  and  the  terror  that  he  inspired, 
and  at  last  of  his  pursuit  by  the  king's  cutter  and  his  utter 
vanishing  "  no  man  knew  where."  But  gradually  as  her 
song  advanced  Coppinger  was  forgotten  and  her  theme  be- 
came the  sea — she  spoke  like  one  possessed,  and  her  voice 
rose  and  fell  like  the  wind — all  Time  and  Place  were  lost. 
Harry  felt  that  he  was  unbounded  by  tradition  of  birth 
or  breeding,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  absolutely  as  one  of 
these  others  with  him  in  the  room — that  he  felt  that  call  of 
those  old  gods  just  as  they  did.  The  girl  ceased  and  the 
room  was  utterly  silent.  Through  the  walls  came  the 
sound  of  the  sea — in  the  fire  was  the  crackling  of  the  coals. 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  233 

and  down  the  great  chimney  came  a  little  whistle  of  the 
wind.  "  A  mighty  fine  pome  'tis  fur  sure,"  said  the 
white-bearded  sailor  solemnly,  "  and  mostly  wonderful 
true."     He  sighed.     "  They's  changed  times,"  he  said. 

The  girl  sat  on  the  table  at  her  father's  side,  watching 
■  them  seriously.  She  flung  her  arms  behind  her  head  and 
then  suddenly — 

"  I  can  dance  too,"  she  said. 

They  pulled  the  table  back  and  watched  her. 

It  was  something  quite  simple  and  unaffected — not, 
perhaps,  in  any  way  great  dancing,  but  having  that  qual- 
ity, so  rarely  met  with,  of  being  exactly  right  and  suited 
to  time  and  place.  Her  arms  moved  in  ripples  like  the 
waves  of  the  sea — every  part  of  her  body  seemed  to  join 
in  the  same  motion,  but  quietly,  with  perfect  tranquillity, 
without  any  sense  of  strain  or  effort.  The  golden  lamps, 
the  coloured  clothes,  the  red-brick  floor,  made  a  back- 
ground of  dazzling  colour,  and  her  black  hair  escaped  and 
fell  in  coils  over  her  neck  and  shoulders. 

Suddenly  she  stopped.  "  There,  that's  all,"  she  said, 
binding  her  hair  up  again  with  quick  fingers.  She  walked 
over  to  the  sailors  and  talked  to  them  with  perfect  freedom 
and  ease;  at  last  she  stayed  by  the  handsomest  of  them — 
a  dark,  well-built  young  fellow  who  put  his  arm  round  her 
waist  and  shared  his  drink  with  her. 

Harry,  as  he  Avatched  them,  felt  strangely  that  it  was 
for  him  a  scene  of  farewell — that  it  was  for  the  last  time 
that  the  place  was  to  offer  him  such  equality  or  that  he 
himself  would  be  in  a  position  to  accept  it.  He  did  not 
know  why  he  had  this  feeling — perhaps  it  was  the  talk  of 
the  Club  about  the  Cove,  or  his  own  certain  conviction 
that  matters  at  the  House  were  rapidly  approaching  a 


234  THE  WOODED  HOESE 

crisis.  Yes,  his  own  protests  were  of  no  avail — things 
must  move,  and  perhaps,  after  all,  it  were  better  that  they 
should. 

Bethel  came  in,  and  as  usual  joined  the  group  at  the 
fire  without  a  word ;  he  looked  at  the  pedlar  curiously  and 
then  seemed  to  recognise  him — then  he  went  up  to  him 
and  soon  they  were  in  earnest  conversation.  It  grew  late, 
and  at  the  stroke  of  midnight  ISTewsome  rose  to  shut  up 
the  house. 

"  I  will  go  back  with  you,"  Bethel  said  to  Harry,  and 
they  walked  to  the  door  together.  For  a  moment  Harry 
turned  back.  The  girl  was  bending  over  the  sailor — her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  his  head  was  tilted  back  to  meet 
her  mouth ;  the  pedlar  was  putting  his  Avares  into  his  pack 
again,  but  some  pieces  of  yellow  and  blue  silk  had  escaped 
him  and  lay  on  the  floor  at  his  feet ;  down  the  street  three 
of  the  sailors  were  tramping  home,  and  the  chorus  of  a 
chanty  died  away  as  they  turned  the  corner. 

The  girl,  the  pedlar,  the  colours  of  the  room,  the  van- 
ishing song,  remained  with  Harry  to  the  end  of  his  life — 
for  that  moment  marked  a  period. 

As  he  walked  up  the  hill  he  questioned  Bethel  about 
the  pedlar. 

"  Oh,  I  had  met  him,"  he  said  vaguely.  "  One  knows 
them  all,  you  know.  But  it  is  difficult  to  remember  where. 
He  is  one  of  the  last  of  his  kind  and  an  amusing  fellow 
enough — "  But  he  sighed — "  I  am  out  of  sorts  to-night 
— my  kite  broke.  Do  you  know,  Trojan,  there  are  times 
when  one  thinks  that  one  has  at  last  got  right  back — to 
the  power,  I  mean,  of  understanding  the  meaning  and 
truth  of  things — and  then,  suddenly,  it  has  all  gone 
and  one  is  just  where  one  was  years  ago  and  it  seems 


THE  WOODED  HOESE  235 

wasted.  I  tell  yon,  man,  last  night  I  was  on  the  moor 
and  it  was  alive  with  something.  I  can't  tell  you  what — 
but  I  waited  and  watched — I  could  feel  them  growing 
nearer  and  nearer,  the  air  was  clearer — their  voices  were 
louder — and  then  suddenly  it  was  all  gone.  But  of  course 
you  won't  understand — none  of  you — why  should  you  ? 
You  think  that  I  am  flying  a  kite — why,  I  am  scaling  the 
universe !  " 

"  Whatever  you  are  doing,"  said  Harry  seriously,  "  you 
are  riot  keeping  your  family.  Look  here.  Bethel,  you 
asked  me  once  if  I  would  be  a  friend  of  yours.  Well,  I 
accepted  that,  and  we  have  been  good  friends  ever  since. 
But  it  really  won't  do — this  kind  of  thing,  I  mean.  Scal- 
ing the  universe  is  all  very  well,  if  you  are  a  single  man 
— ^then  it  is  your  own  look-out ;  but  you  are  married — you 
have  people  depending  on  you,  and  they  will  soon  be  starv-  \ 
mg." 
"     Bethel  burst  out  laughing. 

"They've  got  you,  Trojan!  They've  got  you!"  he 
cried.  "  I  knew  it  would  come  sooner  or  later,  and  it 
hasn't  taken  long.  Three  weeks  and  you're  like  the  rest 
of  them.  Xo,  you  mustn't  talk  like  that,  really.  Tell  me 
I'm  a  damned  fool — no  good — an  absolutely  rotten  type  of 
fellow — and  it's  all  true  enough.  But  you  must  accept  it  • 
at  that.  At  least  I'm  true  to  my  type,  which  is  more 
than  the  rest  of  them  are,  the  hypocrites ! — and  as  to  my 
family,  well,  of  course  I'm  sorry,  but  they're  happy 
enough  and  know  me  too  well  to  have  any  hope  of  ever 
changing  me " 

"  !N"o — of  course,  I  don't  want  to  preach.  I'm  the  last 
man  to  tell  any  one  what  they  should  do,  seeing  the  mess 
that  I've  made  of  things  myself.     But  look  here,  Bethel, 


236  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

I   I  like  you — I  count  myself  a  friend,  and  what  are  friends  | 
/    for  if  they're  not  to  speak  their  minds  ?  " 
/         "Oh!     That's  all  right  enough.     Go  on— I'll  listen." 
He    resigned    himself   with    a   humorous    submission    as 
though  he  were  indulging  the  opinions  of  a  child. 

"  Well,  it  isn't  right,  you  know — it  isn't  really.     I  don't 
want  to  tell  you  that  you're  a  fool  or  a  rotter,  because  you 
aren't,  but  that's  just  what  makes  it  so  sickening  for  any 
one  who  cares  about  you.     You're  letting  all  your  finer  ^ 
self  go.     You're  becoming,   what   they   say  you   are,    a  ^. 
waster.     Of   course,    finding  yourselfs   all   right — every 
man  ought  to  do  that.     But  you  have  no  right  to  throw  off 
all  claims  as  completely  as  you  have  done.     Life  isn't    | 
like  that.     We've  all  got  our  Land  of  Promise,  and,  just  \ 
in  order  that  it  may  remain,  we  are  never  allowed  to  reach  J 
it.     Whilst  you  are  lying  on  your  back  on  the  moor,  your 
wife  and  daughter  are  killing  themselves  in  order  to  keep 
the  home  together — I  say  that  it  is  not  fair." 

"  Oh,  come,  Trojan,"  Bethel  protested,  "  is  that  quite 
fair  ?  Things  are  all  right,  you  know.  They  like  it  bet- 
ter, they  do  really.  Why,  if  I  were  to  stay  at  home  and 
try  to  work  they'd  think  I  was  going  to  be  ill.  Besides, 
I  couldn't — not  at  an  office  or  anything  like  that.  It  isn't 
my  fault,  really — but  it  would  kill  me  now  if  I  couldn't 
get  away  when  I  want  to — ^not  having  liberty  would  be 
worse  than  death." 

"Ah,  that's  yourself,"  said  Harry.  "That's  selfish. 
Why  don't  you  think  of  them  ?  You  can't  let  things  go  on 
as  they  are,  man.     You  must  get  something  to  do." 

"  I'm  danmed  if  I  will,"  Bethel  stopped  short  and 
stretched  his  arms  wide  over  the  moor.  "  It  isn't  as  if  it 
would  do  them  any  good,  and  it  would  kill  me.     Why, 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  237 

one  is  deaf  and  blind  and  dumb  as  soon  as  one  has  work 
to  do.  I'm  a  child,  you  know.  I've  never  grown  up, 
and  of  course  I  hadn't  any  right  to  marry.  I  couldn't 
think  why  I  did.  And  all  you  people — you  grown-ups — 
with  your  businesses  and  difficult  pleasures  and  noisy 
feasts — of  course  you  can't  understand  what  these  things 
mean.  Only  a  few  of  you  who  sit  with  folded  hands  and 
listen  can  know  what  it  is.  I  saw  a  picture  once — some 
people  feasting  in  a  forest,  and  suddenly  a  little  faim 
jumped  from  a  tree  on  to  their  table  and  waited  for  them 
to  play  with  him.  But  some  were  eating  and  some  drink- 
ing and  some  talking  scandal,  and  they  did  not  see  him. 
Only  a  little  boy  and  an  old  man — they  were  doing  noth- 
ing— just  dreaming — and  they  saw  him.  Oh  !  I  tell  you, 
the  dreamer  has  his  philosophy  and  creed  like  the  rest  of 
youT'^ ~- 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  cried  Harry.  "  But  it's  a  case 
of  bread  and  butter.  You  will  be  bankrupt  if  you  go  on 
as  you  are !  " 

"  Oh  no !  "  Bethel  laughed.  "  Providence  looks  after 
the  dreamers.  Something  always  happens — I  know  some- 
thing will  happen  now.  We  are  on  the  edge  of  some  good 
fortune.     I  can  feel  it." 

The  man  was  incorrigible — there  was  no  doubt,  of  it — 
but  Harry  had  something  further  to  say. 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  let  me  take  a  deeper  interest  in 
your  affairs.     May  I  ask  your  daughter  to  marry  me  ?  " 

"What?  Mary?"  Bethel  stopped  and  shouted — 
^'  Why !  That's  splendid !  Of  course,  that's  what  Provi- 
dence has  been  intending  all  this  time.  The  very  thing — 
my  dear  fellow — "  and  he  put  his  arm  on  Harry's  shoul- 
der— "  there's  no  one  I'd  rather  give  my  girl  to.     But  it's 


238  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

nothing  to  do  with  me,  really.  She'll  know  her  mind  and 
tell  jou  what  she  feels  about  it.  Dear  me !  Just  to  think 
of  it!" 

He  broke  out  into  continuous  chuckles  all  the  way  home, 
and  seemed  to  regard  the  whole  affair  as  an  enormous  joke. 
Harry  left  him  shou^ting  at  the  moon.  He  had  scarcely 
meant  to  speak  of  it  so  soon,  but  the  thought  of  her 
struggle  and  the  knowledge  of  her  father's  utter  indiffer- 
ence decided  matters.  He  went  back  to  the  house,  deter- 
mining on  an  interview  in  the  morning. 

Mary  meanwhile  had  been  spending  an  evening  that 
was  anything  but  pleasant — she  had  been  going  through 
her  accounts  and  was  horrified  at  what  she  saw.  They 
were  overdrawn  horribly,  most  of  the  shops  had  refused 
them  further  credit,  and  the  little  income  that  came  to 
them  could  not  hope  to  cover  one-half  of  their  expenses. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  Euin  and  disgrace  stared  them  in 
the  face.  They  might  borrow,  but  there  was  no  one  to 
whom  she  could  go.  They  must,  of  course,  give  up  their 
little  house  and  go  into  rooms,  but  that  would  make  very 
little  difference.  Ah!  life  could  be  very  hard!  She 
looked  at  it  from  every  point  of  view  and  could  think  of 
no  easier  alternative.  She  puzzled  until  her  head  ached, 
and  the  room,  misty  with  figures,  seemed  to  swim  round 
her.  She  felt  horribly,  cruelly  lonely,  and  her  whole  soul 
cried  out  for  Harry — he  would  help  her,  he  would  tell  her 
what  to  do.  She  knew  now  that  she  loved  him  with  all 
the  strength  that  was  in  her,  that  she  had  always  loved 
him,  from  the  first  moment  that  she  had  known  him.  She 
remembered  her  promise  to  him  that  she  would  come  and 
ask  for  his  help  if  she  really  needed  it — ^well,  perhaps  she 
would,  in  the  end,  but  now,  at  least,  she  must  fight  it  out 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  239 

alone.  The  first  obvious  thing  was  that  her  parents  must 
know;  that  thej  would  be  of  any  use  was  not  to  be  ex- 
pected, but  at  least  they  must  realise  on  what  quicksands 
their  house  was  built.  They  were  like  two  children,  with 
no  sense  whatever  of  serious  consequences  and  penalties, 
and  they  would  not,  of  course,  realise  that  they  were  face 
to  face  with  a  brick  wall  of  debts  and  difficulties  and  that 
there  was  no  way  over — but  they  must  be  told. 

On  the  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  Mary  penned  her 
mother  into  the  little  drawing-room  and  broached  the  sub- 
ject. Mrs.  Bethel  knew  that  something  serious  was  to 
follow,  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  chair,  looking  exactly 
like  a  naughty  child  convicted  of  a  fault.  She  was  wear- 
ing a  rather  faded  dress  of  bright  yellow  silk  and  little 
yellow  shoes,  which  she  poked  out  from  under  her  dress 
every  now  and  again  and  regarded  with  a  complacent  air. 

"  They  are  really  not  so  shabby,  Mary,  my  dear — not 
nearly  so  shabby  as  the  blue  ones,  and  a  good  deal  more 
handsome — don't  you  think  so,  my  dear?  But  you  say 
you  want  to  talk  about  something,  so  I'll  be  quiet — only 
if  you  wouldn't  mind  being  just  a  little  quick  because 
tb^T-e  are,  really,  so  many  things  to  be  done  this  morning, 
cnat  it  puzzles  me  how " 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  know.  But  there  is  something  I  want 
to  say.     I  won't  be  long,  only  it's  rather  important." 

"  Yes,  dear — only  don't  scold.  You  look  as  if  you 
were  going  to  scold.  I  can  always  tell  by  that  horrid  line 
you  have,  dear,  in  your  forehead.  I  know  I've  done  some- 
thing I  oughtn't  to,  but  what  it  is  unless  it's  those  red 
silks  I  bought  at  Dixon's  on  Friday,  and  they  were  so 
cheap,  only " 

"  IsTo,   mother,   it's  nothing  you've   done.     It's   rather 


240  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

what  I've  done,  or  all  of  us.  We  are  all  in  the  same  boat. 
It's  my  managing,  I  suppose;  anyhow,  I've  made  a  mess 
of  it  and  we're  very  near  the  end  of  the  rope.  There 
doesn't  seem  any  outlook  anywhere.  We're  overdrawn  at 
the  bank;  they  won't  give  us  credit  in  the  town,  and  I 
don't  see  where  any's  to  come  from." 

"  Oh,  it's  money !  Well,  my  dear,  of  course  it  is  pro- 
voking— such  a  horrid  thing  to  have  to  worry  about ;  but 
really  I'm  quite  relieved.  I  thought  it  was  something  I'd 
done.  You  quite  frightened  me ;  and  I'm  glad  you  don't 
mind  about  the  red  silks,  because  it  really  was  tempting 
with " 

"  'No,  dear,  that's  aU  right.  But  this  is  serious.  I've 
come  to  the  end  and  I  want  you  to  help  me.  Will  you 
just  go  through  the  books  with  me  and  see  if  anything 
can  be  done  ?  I'm  so  tired  and  worried.  I've  been  going 
at  them  so  long  that  I  daresay  I've  muddled  it.  It  mayn't 
be  quite  so  hopeless  as  I've  made  out." 

"  The  books !  My  dear  Mary — "  Mrs.  Bethel  looked 
at  her  daughter  pathetically.  "  You  know  that  I've  no 
head  for  figures.  Why,  when  mother  died  at  home — we 
were  in  Chertsey  then,  Frank  and  Doris  and  I — and  I 
tried  to  manage  things,  you  know,  it  was  really  too  absurd. 
I  used  to  make  the  most  ridiculous  mistakes  and  Frank 
said  that  the  village  people  did  just  what  they  liked  with 
me,  and  I  remember  old  Mrs.  Blenkinsop  charging  me  for 
eggs  after  the  first  month  at  quite  an  outrageous  rate  be- 
cause  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  know.  But  two  heads  are  better  than 
one,  and  I  am  really  hopelessly  puzzled  to  know  what  to 
do."  Mary  got  up  and  went  over  to  her  mother  and  put 
her    arm    round    her.     "  You    see,    dear,    it    is    serious. 


THE  WOODEN"  HOESE  241 

There's  no  money  at  all — less  than  none ;  and  I  don't  know 
where  we  are  to  turn.  There's  no  outlook  at  all.  I'm 
afraid  that  it's  no  use  appealing  to  father — no  use — and 
so  it's  simply  left  for  us  two  to  do  what  we  can.  It's 
frightening  always  doing  it  alone,  and  I  thought  you 
would  help  me." 

"  Well,  of  course,  Mary  dear,  I'll  do  what  I  can.  No, 
I'm  afraid  that  it  would  be  no  good  appealing  to  your 
father.  It's  strange  how  very  little  sense  he's  ever  had  of 
money — of  the  value  of  it.  I  remember  in  the  first  week 
that  we  were  married  he  bought  some  book  or  other  and 
we  had  to  go  without  quite  a  lot  of  things.  I  was  angry 
then,  but  I've  learnt  since.     It  was  our  first  quarrel." 

She  sighed.  It  was  always  Mrs.  Bethel's  method  of 
dealing  with  any  present  problem  to  flee  into  the  happy 
land  of  reminiscence  and  to  stay  there  until  the  matter 
had,  happily  or  otherwise,  settled  itself. 

"  But  I  shouldn't  worry,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  her 
daughter.  "  Things  always  turn  up,  and  besides,"  she 
added,  "  you  might  marry,  dear." 

"  Marry !  "  Mary  looked  up  at  her  mother  sharply. 
Mrs.  Bethel  looked  a  little  frightened. 

"  Well,  you  will,  you  know,  dear,  probably — and  per- 
haps— well,  if  he  had  money " 

"  Mother !  "  She  sprang  up  from  her  chair  and  faced 
her  with  flaming  cheeks.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  they 
are  talking  about  it  ?  " 

"  They  ?  Who  ?  It  was  only  Mrs.  Morrison  the  other 
day,  at  tea-time,  said — that  she  thought " 

"  Mrs.  Morrison  ?  That  hateful  woman  discussing  me  ? 
Mother,  how  could  you  let  her  ?     What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  Why,  only — I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  so  cross,  dear. 


242  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

It  was  nothing  really — only  that  Mr.  Trojan  obviously 
cayed  a  good  deal — and  it  would  be  so  nice  if " 

"  How  dare  she  ?  "  Mary  cried  again.  "  And  you  think 
it  too,  mother — that  I  would  go  on  my  knees  to  him  to 
take  us  out  of  our  trouble — that  I  would  sweep  his  floors 
if  he  would  help  the  family !  Oh !  It's  hateful !  Hate- 
ful!" 

She  flung  herself  into  a  chair  by  the  window  and  burst 
into  tears.  Mrs.  Bethel  stared  at  her  in  amazement. 
"  Well,  upon  my  word,  my  dear,  one  never  knows  how  to 
take  you !  Why,  it  wasn't  as  if  she'd  said  anything,  only 
that  it  would  be  rather  nice."  She  paused  in  utter  be- 
wilderment and  seemed  herself  a  little  inclined  to  cry. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened — Mary  sjDrang  up. 
^'  Who  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Mr.  Henry  Trojan,  miss,  would  like  to  come  up  if  it 
wouldn't " 

"  No.     Tell  him,  Jane,  that " 

But  he  had  followed  the  servant  and  appeared  in  the 
doorway  smiling. 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't  mind  my  coming  unconvention- 
ally like  this,"  he  said ;  "  it's  a  terrible  hour  in  the  morn- 
ing— but  I  felt  sure  that  I  would  catch  you." 

He  had  seen  at  once  that  there  was  something  wrong, 
and  he  stopped  confusedly  in  the  doorway. 

But  Mrs.  Bethel  came  forward,  smiling  nervously. 

"  Oh,  please,  Mr.  Trojan,  do  come  in.  We  always  love 
to  see  you — you  know  we  do — you're  one  of  our  real 
friends — one  of  our  best — and  it's  only  too  good  of  you 
to  spare  time  to  come  round  and  see  us.  But  I  am  busy 
— it's  quite  true — one  is,  you  know,  in  the  morning;  but 
I  don't  think  that  Mary  has  anything  very  important  im- 


THE  WOODEK  HOESE  243 

mediately.  I  think  she  might  stop  and  talk  to  you,"  and 
in  a  confusion  of  tittered  apologies  she  vanished  away. 

But  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  waiting  for  Mary  to  speak. 
She  sat  with  her  head  turned  to  the  window  and  struggled 
to  regain  her  self-command;  they  had  been  talked  about 
in  the  town.  She  could  imagine  how  it  had  gone.  "  Oh ! 
the  Bethel  girl!  Yes,  after  the  Trojan  money  and  doing 
it  cleverly  too;  she'll  hook  him  all  right — he's  just  the 
kind  of  man."     Oh !  the  hatefulness  of  it ! 

"  What's  up  ?  "  He  came  forward  a  little,  twisting  his 
hat  in  his  hands. 

"  ISS'othing !  "  She  turned  round  and  tried  to  smile. 
Indeed  she  almost  laughed,  for  he  looked  so  ridiculous 
standing  there — like  a  great  schoolboy  before  the  head- 
master, his  hat  turning  in  his  hands;  or  rather,  like  a 
collie  plunging  out  of  the  water  and  ready  to  shake  him- 
self on  all  and  sundry.  He  seemed  very  big  and  clumsy 
and  clean,  and  she  knew  that  she  loved  him  and  that  she 
could  never  marry  him  because  Pendragon  thought  that 
she  had  hooked  him  for  his  money. 

"  Yes — there  is  something.  What  is  it  ?  "  He  had 
come  forward  and  taken  her  hands. 

But  she  drew  them  away  slowly  and  sat  down  on  the 
sofa.  "  I'm  tired,"  she  said  a  little  defiantly,  "  that's  all 
— you  know  if  you  will  come  and  call  at  such  dreadfully 
unconventional  hours  you  mustn't  expect  to  find  people 
with  all  the  paint  on.  I  never  put  mine  on  till 
lunch " 

"  ISTo — it's  no  good,"  he  answered  gravely.  "  You're 
worried,  and  it's  wrong  of  you  not  to  tell  me.  You  are 
breaking  your  promise " 

"  I  made  no  promise,"  she  said  quickly. 


244  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

"  You  did — that  day  on  the  moor.  We  were  to  tell 
each  other  always  if  anything  went  wrong.  It  was  a 
bargain." 

"  Well,  nothing's  wrong.  I'm  tired — bothered  a  bit — 
the  old  thing — there's  more  to  be  bought  than  we're  able 
to  pay  for." 

"  I've  come  with  a  proposition,"  he  answered  gravely. 
"  Just  a  suggestion,  which  I  don't  suppose  you'll  consider 
— but  you  might — it  is  that  you  should  marry  me." 

It  had  come  so  suddenly  that  it  took  her  by  surprise. 
The  colour  flew  into  her  cheeks  and  then  ebbed  away 
again,  leaving  her  whiter  than  ever.  That  he  should  have 
actually  said  the  words  made  her  heart  beat  furiously,  and 
there  was  a  singing  in  her  ears  so  that  she  scarcely  heard 
what  he  said.  He  paused  a  moment  and  then  went  on. 
"  Oh !  I  know  it's  absurd  when  we've  only  known  each 
other  such  a  little  time,  and  I've  been  telling  myself  that 
again  and  again — but  it's  no  good.  I've  tried  to  keep  it 
back,  but  I  simply  couldn't  help  it — it's  been  too  strong 
for  me." 

He  paused  again,  but  she  said  nothing  and  he  went  on. 
"  I  ought  to  tell  you  about  myself,  so  that  you  should  know, 
because  I'm  really  an  awfully  rotten  type  of  person.  I've 
never  done  anything  yet,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall ; 
I've  been  a  failure  at  most  things,  and  I'm  awfully  stupid. 
I  never  read  the  right  sort  of  books,  or  look  at  the  right 
sort  of  pictures,  or  like  the  right  sort  of  music,  and  even  at 
the  sort  of  things  that  most  men  are  good  at  I'm  nothing  un- 
usual. I  can't  write,  you  know,  a  bit,  and  in  my  letters 
I  express  myself  like  a  boy  of  fifteen.  And  then  I'm  old 
— quite  middle-aged — although  I  feel  young  enough.     So 


THE  WOODEI^  HOESE  245 

that  all  these  things  are  against  me,  you  see,  and  it's 
really  a  shame  to  ask  you." 

He  paused  again,  and  then  he  said  timidly,  bending 
towards  her. 

"  Could  you  ever,  do  you  think,  give  me  just  a  little 
hope — I  wouldn't  want  you  to  right  away  at  once — but, 
any  time,  after  you'd  thought  about  it  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  saw  that  he  was  shaking  from 
head  to  foot.  Her  pride  was  nearly  overcome  and  she 
wanted  to  fling  herself  at  his  feet,  and  kiss  his  hands,  and 
never  let  him  go,  but  she  remembered  that  Pendragon  had 
said  that  she  was  catching  him  for  his  money;  so,  by  a 
great  effort,  she  stayed  where  she  was,  and  answered 
quietly,  even  coldly — 

"  I  am  more  honoured,  Mr.  Trojan,  than  I  can  tell  you 
by  your  asking  me.  It  is  much,  very  much  more  than  I 
deserve,  and,  indeed,  I'm  not  in  the  least  worthy  of  it. 
I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  no  good.  You  see  I'm  such 
a  stupid  sort  of  girl — I  muddle  things  so.  It  would 
never  do  for  me  to  attempt  to  manage  a  big  place  like 
'  The  Flutes  ' — and  then  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  marry. 
I  don't  think  I  am  that  sort  of  girl.  You  have  been  an 
awfully  good  friend  to  me,  and  I'm  more  grateful  to  you 
than  I  can  say.  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  you  have 
helped  us  all  during  these  last  weeks.  But  I'm  afraid  I 
must  say  no." 

The  light  from  the  window  fell  on  her  hair  and  the  blue 
of  her  dress — a  little  gold  pin  at  her  throat  flashed  and 
sparkled ;  his  eye  caught  it,  and  was  fixed  there. 

"  Ko — don't  say  actually  no."  He  was  stammering. 
"  Please — please.     Think  about  it  after  I  have  gone  away. 


246  THE  WOODEisT  HOESE 

I  will  come  again  another  day  when  you  have  thought 
about  it.  I'm  so  stupid  in  saying  things — I  can't  express 
myself;  but  Miss  Bethel — Mary — I  love  you — I  love 
you.  There  isn't  much  to  say  about  it — I  can't  express  it 
any  better — but,  please — ^you  mustn't  say  no  like  that. 
I  would  be  as  good  a  husband  to  you  as  I  could,  dear, 
always.     I'm  not  the  sort  of  fellow  to  change." 

"  No,"  she  was  speaking  quickly  as  though  she  meant 
it  to  be  final — "  no,  really,  I  mean  it.  I  can't,  really  I 
can't.  You  see  one  has  to  feel  certain  about  it,  hasn't 
one  ? — and  I  don't — not  quite  like  that.  But  you  are  the 
very  best  friend  that  I  have  ever  had;  don't  let  it  spoil 
that." 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  slowly,  "it's  my  age.  You  don  t 
feel  that  you  could  with  a  man  old  enough  to  be  your 
father.  But  I'm  young  really — younger  than  Robin. 
But  I  won't  bother  you  about  it.  Of  course,  if  you  are 
certain " 

He  rose  and  stumbled  a  moment  over  the  chair  as  he 
passed  to  the  door. 

"  Oh !     I'm  so  sorry  !  "   she  cried.     "  I — "   and  then 
she  had  to  turn  to  hide  her  face.     In  her  heart  there  was 
a  struggle  such  as  she  had  never  faced  before.     Her  love^ 
called  her  a  fool  and  told  her  that  she  was  flinging  her     1 
life  away — that  the  shi]3  of  her  good  fortune  was  sailing     I 
from  her,  and  it  would  be  soon  beyond  the  horizon ;  but 
her  pride  reminded  her  of  what  they  had  said — that  she     1 
had  laid  traps  for  him,  for  his  money.  ^""'^ 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said  again.  "  But  it  must  be  only 
friendship." 

But  she  had  forgotten  that  although  her  back  was  turned 


THE  WOODEI^  HORSE  247 

he  was  towards  the  mirror.  He  could  see  her — her  white 
face  and  quivering  lips. 

He  sprang  towards  her. 

"  Mary,  try  me.  I  will  love  you  better  than  any  man  in 
God's  world,  always.  I  will  live  for  you,  and  work  fot 
you,  and  die  for  you." 

It  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  could  not  reason 
now.  She  was  only  resolved  that  she  would  not  give  way> 
and  she  pushed  past  him  blindly,  her  head  hanging. 

The  drawing-room  door  closed.  He  stared  dully  in 
front  of  him.  Then  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  left  the 
house. 

She  had  flung  herself  on  her  bed  and  lay  there  motion- 
less! She  heard  the  door  close,  his  steps  on  the  stairs^ 
and  then  the  outer  door. 

She  sprang  to  the  window,  and  then,  moved  by  some 
blind  impulse,  rushed  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  There 
were  steps  and  Mrs.  Bethel's  voice  penetrated  the  gloom, 
"  Mary,  Mary,  where  are  you  ?  " 

She  crept  back  to  her  room. 

He  walked  back  to  "  The  Flutes  "  with  the  one  fact 
ever  before  him — that  she  had  refused  him.  He  realised 
now  that  it  had  been  his  love  for  her  that  had  kept  him 
during  these  weeks  sane  and  brave.  Without  it,  he  could 
not  have  faced  his  recent  troubles  and  all  the  desolate 
sense  of  outlawry  and  desolation  that  had  weighed  on  him 
so  terribly.  ISTow  he  must  face  it,  alone,  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  did  not  love  him — that  she  had  told  him  so. 
It  was  his  second  rejection — the  second  flinging  to  the 
ground  of  all  his  defences  and  walls  of  protection.  Robin 
had  rejected  him,  Mary  had  rejected  him,  and  he  was  abso- 


^ 


248  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

lutely,  horribly  alone.  He  thought  for  a  moment  of 
Dahlia  Eeverel  and  of  his  own  desertion.  Well,  she  had 
faced  it  pluckilj;  he  would  do  the  same.  Life  could  be 
hard,  but  he  would  not  be  beaten.  His  methods  of  con- 
solation, his  jDulling  of  himself  together — it  was  all  ex- 
tremely commonplace,  but  then  he  was  an  essentially 
commonj)lace  man,  and  saw  things  unconfusedly,  one  at  a 
time,  with  no  entanglement  of  motives  or  complicated 
searching  for  origins.  He  had  accepted  the  fact  of  his  re- 
jection by  his  family  with  the  same  clear-headed  indiffer- 
ence to  side-issues  as  he  accepted  now  his  rejection  by 
Mary.  He  could  not  understand  "  those  artist  fellows 
with  their  complications " — life  for  him  was  perfectly 
straightforward. 

But  the  gods  had  not  done  with  his  day.  On  the  way 
up  to  his  room  he  was  met  by  Clare. 

"  Father  is  worse,"  she  said  quickly.  "  He  took  a  turn 
this  morning,  and  now,  perhaps,  he  will  not  live  through 
the  night.  Dr.  Turner  and  Dr.  Craile  are  both  with  him. 
He  asked  for  you  a  little  while  ago." 

She  passed  down  the  stairs — the  quiet,  self-composed 
woman  of  every  day.  It  was  characteristic  of  a  Trojan 
that  the  more  agitated  outside  circumstances  became  the 
quieter  he  or  she  became.  Harry  was  Trojan  in  this,  and, 
as  was  customary  with  him,  he  put  aside  his  own  worries 
and  dealt  entirely  with  the  matter  in  hand. 

Already,  over  the  house,  a  change  was  evident.  In  the 
absolute  stillness  there  could  be  felt  the  presence  of  a  crisis 
and  the  monotonous  flap  of  a  blind  against  some  distant 
window  sounded  clearly  down  the  passages. 

In  Sir  Jeremy's  room  there  was  perfect  stillness.  The 
two  doctors  had  gone  downstairs  and  the  nurse  was  alone. 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  249 

"  He  asked  for  you,  sir,"  slie  whispered ;  "  lie  is  "uncon- 
scious again  now." 

Harry  sat  down  by  the  bed  and  waited.  The  air  was 
heavy  with  scents  of  medicine,  and  the  drawn  blinds  flung 
grey,  ghost-like  shadows  over  the  bed.  The  old  man 
seemed  scarcely  changed.  The  light  had  gone  from  his 
eyes  and  his  hand  lay  motionless  on  the  sheets,  and  his  lips 
moved  continually  in  a  never-ceasing  murmur. 

Suddenly  he  turned  and  his  eyes  opened.  The  nurse 
moved  forward.  "  Where's  Harry  ? "  He  waved  his 
arm  feebly  in  the  air. 

"  I'm  here,  father,"  Harry  said  quietly. 

"  Ah,  that's  good  " — he  sank  back  on  the  pillows  again. 
"  I'm  going  to  die,  you  know,  and  I'm  lonely.  It's  damned 
gloomy — got  to  die — don't  want  to — but  got  to." 

He  felt  for  his  son's  hand,  found  it,  and  held  it.  Then 
he  passed  off  again  into  half-conscious  sleep,  and  Harry 
watched,  his  hand  in  his  father's  and  his  thoughts  with  the 
girl  and  the  boy  who  had  rejected  him  rather  than  with  the 
old  man  who  had  accepted  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MEAIfWHILE  there  was  Eobin — and  he  had  been 
spending  several  very  unhappy  days.  In  the  gloom 
of  his  room,  alone  and  depressed,  he  had  been  passing 
things  in  review.  He  had  never  hitherto  felt  any  very 
burning  desire  to  know  how  he  stood  with  the  world;  at 
school  and  Cambridge  he  had  not  thought  at  all — he  had 
just,  as  it  were,  slid  into  things;  his  surroundings  had 
grouped  themselves  of  their  own  accord,  making  a  deli- 
cately appreciative  circle  with  no  disturbing  element.  His 
friends  had  been  of  his  own  kind,  the  things  that  he 
had  wished  to  do  he  had  done,  his  thoughts  had  been  dic- 
tated by  set  forms  and  customs.  This  had  seemed  to  him, 
hitherto,  an  extraordinarily  broad  outlook;  he  had  never 
doubted  for  a  moment  its  splendid  infallibility.  He  ap- 
plied the  tests  of  his  set  to  the  world  at  large,  and  the 
world  conformed.  Life  was  very  easy  on  such  terms,  and 
he  had  been  happy  and  contented. 

His  meeting  with  Dahlia  had  merely  lent  a  little  colour 
to  his  pleasant  complacency,  and  then,  when  it  had  threat- 
ened to  become  something  more,  he  had  ruthlessly  cut  it 
out.  This  should  have  been  simple  enough,  and  he  had 
been  at  a  loss  to  understand  why  the  affair  had  left  any 
traces.  Eriends  of  his  at  college  had  had  such  episodes, 
and  had  been  mildly  amused  at  their  rapid  conclusion. 
He  had  tried  to  be  mildly  amused  at  the  conclusion  of  his 
own  affair,  but  had  failed  miserably.     Why  ?  ...  he  did 

250 


THE  WOODE^^  HOESE  251 

not  know.  He  must  be  sensitive,  he  supposed;  then,  in 
that  case,  he  had  failed  to  reach  the  proper  standard.  .  .  . 
Eandal  was  never  sensitive.  But  there  had  been  other 
things. 

During  the  last  week  everything  had  seemed  to  be  topsy- 
turvy. He  dated  it  definitely  from  the  arrival  of  his 
father.  He  recalled  the  day ;  his  tie  was  badly  made,  he 
remembered,  and  he  had  been  rather  concerned  about  it. 
How  curious  it  all  was ;  he  must  have  changed  since  then, 
because  now — well,  ties  seemed  scarcely  to  matter  at  all. 
He  saw  his  father  standing  at  the  open  window  watching 
the  lighted  town.  ..."  Eobin,  old  boy,  we'll  have  a  good 
time,  you  and  I  .  .  ." — and  then  Aunt  Clare  with  her  lit- 
tle cry  of  horror,  and  his  father's  hurried  apology.  That 
had,  really,  been  the  beginning  of  things;  one  could  see 
how  it  would  go  from  the  first.  Had  it,  after  all,  been  so 
greatly  his  father's  fault  ?  He  was  surprised  to  find  that 
he  was  regarding  his  uncle  and  aunt  critically.  ...  It 
had  been  their  fault  to  a  great  extent — they  had  never 
given  him  a  chance.  Then  he  remembered  the  next  morn- 
ing and  his  own  curt  refusal  to  his  father's  invitation — 
"  He  had  books  to  pack  for  Eandal !  "  How  absurd  it  was, 
and  really  he  wondered  why  he  should  have  considered 
Eandal  so  important.     He  could  have  waited  for  the  books. 

But  these  things  depended  entirely  on  his  own  sudden 
discovery  that  he  had  failed  in  a  crisis — failed,  and  failed 
lamentably.  He  did  not  believe  that  Eandal  would  have 
failed.  Eandal  would  not  have  worried  about  it  for  a  mo- 
ment. What,  then,  was  precisely  the  difference  ?  He  had 
acted  throughout  according  to  the  old  set  formula — he  had 
applied  all  the  rules  of  the  game  as  he  had  learnt  them, 
and  nevertheless  he  had  been  beaten.     And  so  there  had 


252  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

crept  over  him  gradually,  slowly,  and  at  last  overwhelm- 
ingly, the  knowledge  that  the  world  that  he  had  imagined 
was  not  the  world  as  it  is,  that  the  people  he  had  admired 
were  not  the  only  admirable  people  in  it,  and  that  the  laws 
that  had  governed  him  were  only  a  small  fragment  of  the 
laws  that  rule  the  world. 

/  When  this  discovery  first  comes  to  a  man  the  effect  is 
deadening ;  like  a  ship  that  has  lost  its  hearings  he  plunges 
in  a  sea  of  entangled,  confused  ideas  with  no  assurances  as 
to  his  own  ability  to  reach  any  safe  port  whatever.  It  is 
this  crisis  that  marks  the  change  from  youth  to  manhood. 

Three  weeks  ago  Eobin  had  been  absolutely  confident, 
not  only  in  himself,  but  in  his  relations,  his  House  and 
his  future;  now  he  trusted  in  nothing.  But  he  had  not 
yet  arrived  at  the  point  when  he  could  regard  his  own  short- 
comings as  the  cause  of  his  unhappiness ;  he  pointed  to  cir- 
cumstances, his  aunt,  his  uncle,  Dahlia,  even  Randal,  and 
he  began  a  search  for  something  more  reliable. 

Of  course,  his  aunt  and  uncle  might  have  solved  the 
problem  for  him ;  he  had  not  dared  to  question  them  and 
they  had  never  mentioned  the  subject  themselves,  but  they 
did  not  look  as  though  they  had  succeeded — he  fancied  that 
they  had  avoided  him  during  the  last  few  days. 

The  serious  illness  of  his  grandfather  still  further  com- 
plicated matters ;  he  was  not  expected  to  live  through  the 
week.  Robin  was  sorry,  but  he  had  never  seen  very  much 
of  his  grandfather ;  and  it  was,  after  all,  only  fitting  that 
such  a  very  old  man  should  die  some  time;  no,  the  point 
really  was  that  his  father  would  in  a  week's  time  be  Sir 
Henry  Trojan  and  head  of  the  House — that  was  what  mat- 
tered. 

!Now  his  father  was  the  one  person  whom  he  could  find 


THE  WOODED  HOESE  253 

no  excuse  whatever  for  blaming.  He  had  stood  entirely 
outside  the  affair  from  the  beginning,  and,  as  far  as  Kobin 
could  tell,  knew  nothing  whatever  about  it.  Eobin,  in- 
deed, had  taken  care  that  he  should  not  interfere ;  he  had 
been  kept  outside  from  the  first. 

'No,  Eobin  could  not  blame  his  father  for  the  state  of 
things ;  perhaps,  even,  it  might  have  been  better  if  his  ad- 
vice had  been  asked. 

But  everything  drove  him  back  to  the  ultimate  fact  from 
which,  indeed,  there  was  no  escaping — that  there  was  every 
prospect  of  his  finding  himself,  within  a  few  weeks'  time, 
the  interesting  centre  of  a  common  affair  in  the  Courts  for 
Breach  of  Promise ;  and  as  this  ultimate  issue  shone  clearer 
and  clearer  Robin's  terror  increased  in  volume.  To  his 
excited  fancy,  living  and  dead  seemed  to  turn  upon  him. 
Country  cousins — the  Kev.  George  Trojan  of  West 
Taunton,  a  clergyman  whose  evangelical  tendencies  had 
been  the  mock  of  the  House;  Colonel  Trojan  of  Chelten- 
ham, a  Port-and-Pepper  Indian,  as  Eobin  had  scornfully 
called  him;  the  Misses  Trojan  of  Southsea,  ladies  of  ad- 
vanced years  and  slender  purses,  who  always  sent  him  a 
card  at  Christmas;  Mrs.  Adeline  Trojan  of  Teignmouth, 
who  had  spent  her  life  in  beating  at  the  doors  of  London 
Society  and  had  retired  at  last,  defeated,  to  the  pro- 
vincial gentility  of  a  seaside  town — Oh !  Eobin  had 
laughed  at  them  all  and  scorned  them  again  and 
again — and  behold  how  the  tables  would  be  turned !  And 
the  Dead !  Their  scorn  would  be  harder  still  to  bear.  He 
had  thought  of  them  often  enough  and  had  long  ago  known 
their  histories  by  heart.  He  had  gazed  at  their  portraits 
in  the  Long  Gallery  until  he  knew  every  line  of  their  faces : 
old  Lady  Trojan  of  1640,  a  little  like  Eembrandt's  "  Lady 


254  THE  WOODEI^  HOKSE 

with,  tlie  Euff/'  with  her  stern  mouth  and  eyes  and  stiff 
white  collar — she  must  have  been  a  lady  of  character !  Sir 
Charles  Trojan,  her  son,  who  plotted  for  William  of 
Orange  and  was  rewarded  royally  after  the  glorious  Eevo- 
lution;  Lady  Gossiter  Trojan,  a  woman  who  had  taken  ac- 
tive part  in  the  '45,  and  used  "  The  Flutes  "  as  a  refuge 
for  intriguing  Jacobites ;  and,  best  of  all,  a  dim  black  pic- 
ture of  a  man  in  armour  that  hung  over  the  mantelpiece,  a 
portrait  of  a  certain  Sir  ^Robert  Trojan  who  had  fought 
in  the  Barons'  Wars  and  been  a  giant  of  his  times ;  he  had 
always  been  Robin's  hero  and  had  formed  the  centre  of 
many  an  imaginary  tapestry  worked  by  Eobin's  brain — 
and  now  his  descendant  must  pay  costs  in  a  Breach  of 
Promise  Case! 

They  had  all  had  their  faults,  those  Trojans;  some  of 
them  had  robbed  and  murdered  with  little  compunction, 
but  they  had  always  had  their  pride,  they  had  never  done 
anything  really  low — what  they  had  done  they  had  done 
with  a  high  hand ;  Robin  would  be  the  first  of  the  family 
to  let  them  down.  And  it  was  really  rather  curious  to 
think  that,  three  weeks  ago,  it  had  been  his  father  who  was 
going  to  let  them  down.  Eobin  remembered  with  what 
indignation  he  had  heard  of  his  father's  visits  to  the  Cove, 
his  friendship  with  Bethel  and  the  rest — but  surely  it  was 
they  who  had  driven  him  out !  It  was  their  own  doing 
from  the  first — or  rather  his  aunt  and  uncle's.  He  was 
beginning  to  be  annoyed  with  his  aunt  and  uncle.  He  felt 
vaguely  that  they  had  got  him  into  the  mess 'and  were  quite 
unable  to  pull  him  out  again ;  which  reflection  brought  him 
back  to  the  original  main  business,  namely,  that  there  was 
a  mess,  and  a  bad  one. 
i     It  was  one  of  his  qualities  of  youth  that  he  could  not 


THE  WOODEK  HOESE  255 

wait;  patience  was  an  utterly  unlearned  virtue,  and  this 
desiderate  uncertainty,  this  sitting  like  Damocles  under  a 
sword  suspended  by  a  hair,  was  hard  to  bear.  What  was 
Dahlia  doing  ?  Had  she  already  taken  steps  ?  He 
watched  every  post  with  terror  lest  it  should  contain  a 
lawyer's  writ.  He  had  the  vaguest  ideas  about  such 
things  .  .  .  perhaps  they  would  put  him  in  prison.  To 
his  excited  fancy  the  letters  seemed  enormous — horrible, 
black,  menacing,  large  for  all  the  world  to  see.  What  had 
Aunt  Clare  done  ?  His  uncle  ?  And  then,  last  of  all,  had 
his  father  any  suspicions  ? 

Whether  it  was  the  London  tailor,  or  simply  the  reassur- 
ing hand  of  custom,  his  father  was  certainly  not  the  un- 
couth person  he  had  seemed  three  weeks  ago;  in  fact, 
Eobin  was  beginning  to  think  him  rather  handsome — such 
muscles  and  such  a  chest ! — and  he  really  carried  himself 
very  well,  and  indeed  loose,  badly-made  clothes  suited  him 
rather  well.  And  then  he  had  changed  so  in  other  ways ; 
there  was  none  of  that  overwhelming  cheerfulness,  that 
terrible  hail-fellow-well-met  kind  of  manner  now;  he  was 
brief  and  to  the  point,  he  seldom  smiled,  and  surely  it 
wasn't  to  be  wondered  at  after  the  way  in  which  they  had 
treated  him  at  the  family  council  a  week  ago. 

There  had  been  several  occasions  lately  on  which  Robin 
would  have  liked  to  have  spoken  to  his  father.  He  had 
begun,  once,  after  breakfast,  a  halting  conversation,  but  he 
had  only  received  monosyllables  as  a  reply — the  thing  had 
broken  down  painfully. 

It  was  all  rather  funny — this  somewhat  sudden  change ; 
but  this  suspense,  at  any  rate,  should  cease.  And  so  he 
went  down  to  his  aunt. 

It  was  her  room  again,  and  she  was  having  tea  witK 


256  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

Uncle  Garrett.  Eobin  remembered  the  last  occasion,  only 
a  week  ago,  when  he  had  made  his  confession.  He  had 
been  afraid  of  hurting  his  aunt  then,  he  remembered.  He 
did  not  mind  very  much  now  ...  he  saw  his  aunt  and 
uncle  as  two  people  suddenly  grown  effete,  purposeless, 
incapable.  They  seemed  to  have  changed  altogether,  which 
only  meant  that  he  was,  at  last,  finding  himself. 

There  hung  a  gloom  over  Clare's  tea-table,  partly,  no 
doubt,  because  of  Sir  Jeremy — the  old  man  with  the 
wrinkled  hands  and  parchment  face  seemed  to  follow  one, 
noiselessly,  remorselessly,  through  every  passage  and  into 
every  room  .  .  .  but  there  was  also  something  else — that 
tension  always  noticeable  in  a  room  where  people  whose 
recent  action  towards  some  common  goal  is  undeclared  are 
gathered  together ;  they  were  waiting  for  some  one  else  to 
make  the  next  move. 

And  it  was  Robin  who  made  it,  asking  at  once,  as  he 
dropped  the  sugar  into  his  cup  and  balanced  for  a  moment 
the  tongs  in  the  air :  "  Well,  Aunt  Clare,  what  have  you 
done  ? " 

She  noticed  at  once  that  he  asked  it  a  little  scornfully, 
as  though  assured  beforehand  that  she  had  done  very  little. 
There  was  a  note  of  antagonism  in  the  way  that  he  had 
spoken,  a  hint,  even,  of  challenge.  She  knew  at  once  that 
he  had  changed  during  the  last  week,  and  again,  knowing 
as  she  did  of  her  failure  with  the  girl  and  guessing  per- 
haps at  its  probable  sequence,  she  hated  Harry  from  the 
bottom  of  her  heart. 

"  Done  ?  Why,  how,  Robin  dear  ?  I  don't  advise  those 
tea-cakes — they're  heavy.  I  must  speak  to  Wilson — she's 
been  a  little  careless  lately;  those  biscuits  are  quite  nice. 
Done,  dear  ? " 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  257 

"  Yes,  aunt — about  Miss  Eeverel.  l^o,  I  don't  want 
anything  to  eat,  thanks — it  seems  only  an  hour  or  so  since 
lunch — yes — about — well,  those  letters  ?  " 

Clare  looked  up  at  him  pleadingly.  He  was  speaking  a 
little  like  Harry ;  she  had  noticed  during  the  last  week  that 
he  had  several  things  in  common  with  his  father — little 
things,  the  way  that  he  wrinkled  his  forehead,  pushed  back 
his  hair  with  his  hand;  she  was  not  sure  that  it  was  not 
conscious  imitation,  and  indeed  it  had  seemed  to  her  dur- 
ing the  last  week  that  every  day  drew  him  further  from 
herself  and  nearer  to  Harry.  She  had  counted  on  this 
affair  as  a  means  of  reclaiming  him,  and  now  she  must 
confess  failure — Oh !  it  was  hard ! 

"  Well,  Robin,  I  have  tried — "     She  paused. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  said  drily,  waiting. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  wasn't  much  of  a  success,"  she  said,  try- 
ing to  laugh.  "  I  suppose  that  really  I'm  not  good  at  that 
sort  of  thing." 

"  At  what  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

He  stood  over  her  like  a  judge,  the  certainty  of  her  fail- 
ure the  only  thing  that  he  could  grasp.  He  did  not  recog- 
nise her  own  love  for  him,  her  fear  lest  he  should  be  p.ngry  ; 
he  was  merciless  as  he  had  been  three  weeks  ago  with  his 
father,  as  he  had  been  with  Dahlia  Feverel,  and  for  the 
same  reason — because  each  had  taken  from  him  some  of 
that  armour  of  self-confidence  in  which  he  had  so  greatly 
trusted;  the  winds  of  the  heath  were  blowing  about  him 
and  he  stood,  stripped,  shivering,  before  the  world. 

"  She  was  not  good  at  that  sort  of  thing  " — that  was 
exactly  it,  exactly  the  summary  of  his  new  feeling  about 
his  aunt  and  uncle;  they  were  not  able  to  cope  with  that 
hard,  new  world  into  which  he  had  been  so  suddenly  flung 


258  THE  WOODEIT  HORSE 

j — they  were,  he  scornfully  considered,  "  tea-table  "  per- 
sons, and  in  so  judging  them  he  condemned  himself.         ^^^ 

"  I'm  so  very  sorry,  dear.  I  did  my  very  best.  I  went 
to  see  the — um — Miss  Feverel,  and  we  talked  about  them. 
But  I'm  afraid  that  I  couldn't  persuade  her — she  seemed 
determined " 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  little — only  that  she  considered  that  the  let- 
ters were  hers  and  that  therefore  she  had  every  right  to 
keep  them  if  she  liked.  She  seemed  to  attach  some  es- 
pecial, rather  sentimental  value  to  them,  and  considered, 
apparently,  that  it  would  be  quite  impossible  to  give  them 
up." 

"  How  was  she  looking — ill  ? "  It  had  been  one  of 
Eobin's  consolations  during  these  weeks  to  imagine  her 
pale,  wretched,  broken  down. 

"  Oh  no,  extremely  well.  She  seemed  rather  amused 
at  the  whole  affair.     I  was  not  there  very  long." 

"  And  is  that  all  you  have  done  ?  Have  you,  I  mean, 
taken  any  other  steps  ? " 

"  Yes — I  wrote  yesterday  morning.  I  got  an  answer 
this  morning." 

"  What  was  it  ? "  Robin  spoke  eagerly.  Perhaps  his 
aunt  had  some  surprise  in  store  and  would  produce  the  let- 
ters suddenly ;  surely  Dahlia  would  not  have  written  unless 
she  had  relented. 

Clare  went  to  her  writing-table  and  returned  with  the 
letter,  held  gingerly  between  finger  and  thumb. 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  not  very  long,"  she  said,  laughing  nerv- 
ously, and  again  looking  at  Eobin  appealingly — "  I  had 
written  asking  her  to  think  over  what  she  had  said  to  me 
the  day  before.     She  says : 


THE  WOODEIs^  HOESE  259 

"  '  Deae  Miss  Trojan, — Surely  the  matter  is  closed 
after  what  happened  the  other  day  ?  I  am  extremely  sorry 
that  you  should  be  troubled  by  my  decision ;  but  it  is,  I  am 
afraid,  unalterable.       Yours  truly, 

"  '  D.  Eeverel.'  " 

"  Her  decision  ?  "  cried  Eobin  quickly.  "  Had  she  told 
you  anything  ?     Had  she  decided  anything  ?  " 

"  Only  that  she  would  keep  the  letters,"  answered 
Clare  slowly.  "  You  couldn't  expect  me,  Eobin  dear,  to 
argue  with  her  about  it.  One  had,  after  all,  one's 
dignity." 

"  Oh !  it's  no  use !  "  cried  Eobin.  "  She  means  to  use 
them — of  course,  it's  all  plain  enough;  w^e've  just  got  to 
face  it,  I  suppose ;  "  and  then,  as  a  forlorn  hope,  turning  to 
his  uncle — 

"  You've  done  nothing,  I  suppose,  Uncle  Garrett  ?  " 

His  uncle  had  hitherto  taken  no  part  in  the  discussion, 
but  sat,  intent  on  the  book  that  he  was  reading.  Now  he 
answered,  without  looking  up — 

"  Yes — I  saw  the  girl." 

"  You  saw  her  ?  "  from  Clare. 

"  What !  Dahlia !  "  from  Eobin. 

"Yes,  I  called."  He  laid  the  book  down  on  his  knee 
and  enjoyed  the  effect  of  his  announcement.  He  could  be 
important  for  a  moment  at  any  rate,  although  he  must,  with 
his  next  words,  confess  failure,  so  he  prolonged  the  situa- 
tion. "  Some  more  tea,  Clare,  please,  and  not  quite  so 
strong  this  time — you  might  speak  about  the  tea — why  not 
make  it  yourself  ?  " 

She  took  his  cup  and  went  over  to  the  tea-table.  She 
knew  how  to  play  the  game  as  well  as  he  did,  and  she 
showed  no  astonishment  or  vulgar  curiosity,  but  if  he  had 


260  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

succeeded  where  she  had  failed  she  must  change  her  hand. 
She  had  never  thought  very  much  about  Garrett ;  he  was  a 
thorough  Trojan — for  that  she  was  very  grateful,  but  he 
had  always  been  more  of  an  emblem  to  her  than  a  man. 
N'ow  if  he  had  got  the  letters  she  was  humiliated  indeed. 
Robin  would  despise  her  for  having  failed  where  his  uncle 
had  succeeded. 

"  Well,  have  you  got  them  ?  " 

Robin  bent  forward  eagerly. 

"  JSTo,  not  precisely,"  Garrett  answered  deliberately. 
"  But  I  went  to  see  her " 

"  With  what  result  ?  " 

"  With  no  precise  result — that  is  to  say,  she  did  not 
promise  to  surrender  them — not  immediately.  But  I  have 
every  hope — "     He  paused  mysteriously. 

"  Of  what  ? "  If  his  uncle  had  really  a  chance  of  get- 
ting them,  he  was  not  such  a  fool  after  all.  Perhaps 
he  was  a  cleverer  man  than  one  gave  him  credit  for 
being. 

"  Well,  of  course,  one  has  very  little  ground  for  any 
real  assertion,  but  we  discussed  the  matter  at  some  length. 
I  think  I  convinced  her  that  it  would  be  her  wisest  course 
to  deliver  up  the  letters  as  soon  as  might  be,  and  I  assured 
her  that  we  would  let  the  matter  rest  there  and  take  no 
further  steps.  I  think  she  was  impressed,"  and  he  sipped 
his  tea  slowly  and  solemnly. 

"  Impressed !  Yes,  but  what  has  she  promised  ?  "  Robin 
cried  impatiently.  He  knew  Dahlia  better  than  they  did, 
and  he  did  not  feel  somehow  that  she  was  very  likely  to  be 
impressed  with  Uncle  Garrett.  He  was  not  the  kind  of 
man. 

"  Promised  ?     ]^o,  not  a  precise  promise — but  she  was 


THE  WOODEIT  HOESE  261 

quite  pleasant  and  seemed  to  be  open  to  argument — quite 
a  nice  young  person." 

"  Ah !  you  have  done  nothing !  "  There  was  a  note  of 
relief  in  Clare's  exclamation.  "  Why  not  say  so  at  once, 
Garrett,  instead  of  beating  about  the  bush  ?  There  is  an 
end  of  it.  We  ha^e  failed,  Eobin,  both  of  us;  we 
are  where  we  were  before,  and  what  to  do  next  I  really 
don't  know." 

It  was  rather  a  comfort  to  drag  Garrett  into  it  as  well. 
She  was  glad  that  he  had  tried;  it  made  her  own  failure 
less  noticeable. 

Eobin  looked  at  both  of  them,  gloomily,  from  the  fire- 
place. Aunt  Clare,  handsome,  aristocratic,  perfectly  well 
fitted  to  pour  out  tea  in  any  society,  but  useless,  useless, 
useless  when  it  came  to  the  real  thing;  Uncle  Garrett  and 
his  eyeglass,  trying  to  make  the  most  of  a  situation  in 
which  he  had  most  obviously  failed — no,  they  were  no  good 
either  of  them,  and  three  weeks  ago  they  had  seemed  the 
ultimate  standard  by  which  his  own  life  was  to  be  tested. 
How  quickly  one  learnt ! 

"  Well,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  "  he  said  desperately.  "  It's 
plain  enough  that  she  means  to  stick  to  the  things;  and, 
after  all,  there  can  only  be  one  reason  for  her  doing  it — 
she  means  to  use  them.  I  can  see  no  way  out  of  it  at  all — 
one  must  just  stand  up  to  it." 

"We'll  think,  dear,  we'll  think,"  said  Clare  eagerly. 
"  Ideas  are  sure  to  come  if  we  only  wait." 

"  Wait !  But  we  can't  wait !  "  cried  Eobin.  "  She'll 
move  at  once.  Probably  the  letters  are  in  the  law^^er's 
hands  already." 

"  Then  there's  nothing  to  be  done,"  said  Garrett  com- 
fortably, settling  back  again  into  his  book — he  was,  he 


262  THE  WOODEK  HORSE 

flattered  himself,  a  man  of  most  excellent  practical  sense. 

"  ISTo,  it  reallj  seems,  Eobin,  as  if  we  liad  better  wait," 
said  Clare.  "  We  must  have  patience.  Perhaps  after  all 
she  has  taken  no  steps." 

Bnt  Eobin  was  angry.  He  had  long  ago  forgotten  his 
share  in  the  business;  he  had  adopted  so  successfully  the 
role  of  injured  sufferer  that  his  own  actions  seemed  to  him 
almost  meritorious.  But  he  was  very  angry  with  them. 
Here  they  were,  in  the  face  of  a  family  crisis,  deliber- 
ately adopting  a  policy  of  laissez-faire;  he  had  done  his 
best  and  had  failed,  but  he  was  young  and  ignorant  of  the 
world  (that  at  least  he  now  admitted),  but  they  were  old, 
experienced,  wise — or,  at  least,  they  had  always  seemed  to 
him  to  stand  for  experience  and  wisdom,  and  yet  they  could 
do  nothing — nay,  worse — they  seemed  to  wish  to  do  noth- 
ing— Oh !  he  was  angry  with  them ! 

The  whole  room  with  its  silver  and  knick-knacks — its 
beautifully  worked  cushions  and  charming  water-colours, 
its  shining  rows  of  complete  editions  and  dainty  china  stood 
to  him  now  for  incapacity.  Three  weeks  ago  it  had  seemed 
his  Holy  of  Holies. 

"  But  we  can't  wait,"  he  repeated — "  we  can't!  Don't 
you  see,  Aunt  Clare,  she  isn't  the  sort  of  girl  that  waiting 
does  for  ?  She'd  never  dream  of  waiting  herself."  Dahlia 
seemed,  by  contrast  with  their  complacent  acquiescence,  al- 
most admirable. 

"  Well,  dear,"  Clare  answered,  "  your  uncle  and  I  have 
both  tried — I  think  that  we  may  be  alarming  ourselves  un- 
necessarily. I  must  say  she  didn't  seem  to  me  to  bear  any 
grudge  against  you.  I  daresay  she  will  leave  things  as 
they  are " 

"  Then  why  keep  the  letters  ?  " 


THE  WOODED  HORSE  263 


(( 


Oh,  sentiment.     It  would  remind  her,  you  see " 

But  Eobin  could  only  repeat — "  ISTo,  she's  not  that  kind 
of  girl,"  and  marvel,  perplexedly,  at  their  short-sighted- 
ness. 

And  then  he  approached  the  point — 

"  There  is,  of  course,"  he  said  slowly,  "  one  other  person 
who  might  help  us — "     He  paused. 

Garrett  put  his  book  dowm  and  looked  up.  Clare  leaned 
towards  him. 

"  Yes  ?  "  Clare  looked  slightly  incredulous  of  any  sug- 
gested remedy — but  apparently  composed  and  a  little  tired 
of  all  this  argument.  But,  in  reality,  her  heart  was  beat- 
ing furiously.  Had  it  come  at  last  ? — that  first  mention  of 
his  father  that  she  had  dreaded  for  so  many  days. 

"  I  really  cannot  thinlj — "  from  Garrett. 

"  Why  not  my  father  ?  " 

Again  it  seemed  to  Clare  that  she  and  Harry  were  strug- 
gling for  Eobin  .  .  .  since  that  first  moment  of  his  entry 
they  had  struggled — she  with  her  twenty  years  of  faithful 
service,  he  with  nothing — Oh  !  it. was  unfair ! 

"  But,  Eobin,"  she  said  gently — "  you  can't — not,  at 
least,  after  what  has  happened.  This  is  an  affair  for  our- 
selves— for  the  family." 

"  But  he  is  the  family !  " 

"  Well,  in  a  sense,  yes.  But  his  long  absence — his  dif- 
ferent way  of  looking  at  things — make  it  rather  hard.  It 
would  be  better,  wouldn't  it,  to  settle  it  here,  without  its 
going  further." 

"  To  settle  it,  yes — but  we  can't — ^we  don't — we  are  leav- 
ing things  quite  alone — waiting — when  we  ought  to  do 
something." 

Eobin  knew  that  she  was  showing  him  that  his  father  was 


264  THE  WOODEK  HORSE 

still  outside  the  circle — that  for  herself  and  Uncle  Garrett 
recent  events  had  made  no  difference. 

But  was  he  outside  the  circle  ?  Why  should  he  be  ?  At 
any  rate  he  would  soon  be  head  of  the  House,  and  then  it 
would  matter  very  little 

"  Also/'  Clare  added,  "  he  will  scarcely  have  time  just 
now.  He  is  with  father  all  day — and  I  don't  see  what  he 
could  do,  after  all." 

"  He  could  see  her,"  said  Eobin  slowly.  He  suddenly 
remembered  that  Dahlia  had  once  expressed  great  admira- 
tion for  his  father — she  was  the  very  woman  to  like  that 
kind  of  man.  A  hurried  mental  comparison  between  his 
father  and  Uncle  Garrett  favoured  the  idea. 

"  He  could  see  her,"  he  said  again.  "  I  think  she  might 
like  him." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Garrett,  "  take  it  from  me  that 
what  a  man  could  do  I've  done.  I  assure  you  it's  useless. 
Your  father  is  a  very  excellent  man,  but,  I  must  confess, 
in  my  opinion  scarcely  a  diplomat " 

"  Well,  at  any  rate  it's  worth  trying,"  cried  Robin  im- 
patiently. "  We  must,  I  suppose,  eat  humble  pie  after  the 
things  you  said  to  him.  Aunt  Clare,  the  other  day,  but  I 
must  confess  it's  the  only  chance.  He  will  be  decent  about 
it,  I'm  sure — I  think  you  scarcely  realise  how  nasty  it 
promises  to  be." 

"  Who  is  to  ask  ?  "  said  Garrett. 

"  I  will  ask  him,"  said  Clare  suddenly.  "  Perhaps  after 
all  Robin  is  right — he  might  do  something." 

It  might,  she  thought,  be  the  best  thing.  Unless  he  tried, 
Robin  would  always  consider  him  capable  of  succeeding — 
but  he  should  try  and  fail — fail !  Why,  of  course  he  would 
fail. 


THE  WOODEK  HOESE  .  265 

"  Thank  you,  Aunt  Clare."  Eobin  walked  to  the  door 
and  then  turned :  "  Soon  would  be  best  " — then  he  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

His  father  was  coming  down  the  stairs  as  he  passed 
through  the  hall.  He  saw  him  against  the  light  of  the 
window  and  he  half  turned  as  though  to  speak  to  him — but 
his  father  gave  no  sign ;  he  looked  very  stern — perhaps  his 
grandfather  was  dead. 

The  sudden  fear — the  terror  of  death  brought  very  close 
to  him  for  the  first  time — caught  him  by  the  throat. 

"  He  is  not  dead  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"  He  is  asleep,"  Harry  said,  stopping  for  a  moment  on 
the  last  step  of  the  stairs  and  looking  at  him  across  the 
hall — "  I  am  afraid  that  he  won't  live  through  the  night." 

They  had  both  spoken  softly,  and  the  utter  silence  of  the 
house,  the  heaviness  of  the  air  so  that  it  seemed  to  hang  in 
thick  clouds  above  one's  head,  drove  Eobin  out.  He  looked 
as  though  he  would  sjDcak,  and  then,  with  bent  head,  passed 
into  the  garden. 

He  felt  most  miserably  lonely  and  depressed — if  he 
hadn't  been  so  old  and  jDroud  he  would  have  hidden  in  one 
of  the  bushes  and  cried.  It  was  all  so  terrible — his  grand- 
father, that  weighty,  eerie  impression  of  Death  felt  for  the 
first  time,  the  dreadful  uncertainty  of  the  Feverel  affair, 
all  things  were  quite  enough  for  misery,  but  this  feeling  of 
loneliness  was  new  to  him. 

He  had  always  had  friends,  but  even  when  they  had 
failed  him  there  had  been  behind  them  the  House — its 
traditions,  its  records,  its  history — his  aunt  and  uncle,  and, 
most  reassuring  of  all,  himself. 

But  now  all  these  had  failed  him.  His  friends  were 
vaguely  unattractive;  Eandal  was  terribly  superficial,  he 


[ 


266  THE  WOODEK  HOESE 

was  betraying  the  House ;  his  aunt  and  uncle  were  unsatis- 
factory, and  for  himself — well,  he  wasn't  quite  so  splendid 
as  he  had  once  thought.  He  was  wretchedly  dissatisfied 
,  with  it  all  and  felt  that  he  would  give  all  the  polish  and 
\  culture  in  the  world  for  a  simple,  unaffected  friendship  in 
which  he  could  trust. 

"  Some  one/'  he  said  angrily,  "  that  would  do  some- 
thing " — and  his  thoughts  were  of  his  father. 

It  was  dark  now,  and  he  went  down  to  the  sea,  because 
he  liked  the  white  flash  of  the  waves  as  they  broke  on  the 
beach — this  sudden  appearing  and  disappearing  and  the 
rustle  of  the  pebbles  as  they  turned  slowly  back  and  van- 
ished into  the  night  again. 

He  liked,  too,  the  myriad  lights  of  the  town :  the  rows  of 
lamps,  rising  tier  on  tier  into  the  night  sky,  like  people  in 
some  great  amphitheatre  waiting  in  silence  for  the  rising 
of  a  mighty  curtain.  He  always  thought  on  these  nights 
of  Germany — Germany,  Worms,  the  little  bookseller,  the 
distant  gleam  of  candles  in  the  Cathedrals,  the  flash  of  the 
sun  through  the  trees  over  the  Rhine,  the  crooked,  cobbled 
streets  at  night  with  the  moon  like  a  lamp  and  the  gabled 
roofs  flinging  wild  shadows  over  the  stones  .  .  .  the  night- 
sea  brought  it  very  close  and  carried  Kandal  and  Cam- 
bridge and  Dahlia  Eeverel  very  far  away,  although  he  did 
not  know  why. 

He  watched  the  light  of  the  town  and  the  waves  and  the 
great  flashing  eye  of  the  lighthouse  and  then  turned  back. 
As  he  climbed  the  steps  up  the  cliff  he  heard  some  one  be- 
hind him,  and,  turning,  saw  that  it  was  Mary  Bethel.  She 
said  "  Good-night  "  quickly  and  was  going  to  pass  him,  but 
he  stopped  her. 

"  I  haven't  seen  you  for  ages,  Mary,"  he  said.     He  re- 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  267 

solved  to  speak  to  her.     She  knew  his  father  and  had  al- 
ways been  a  good  sort — perhaps  she  wonld  help  him. 

"  Are  you  coming  back,  Eobin  ?  "  she  said,  stopping  and 
smiling.  There  was  a  lamp  at  the  top  of  the  cliff  where  the 
road  ran  past  the  steps,  and  by  the  light  of  it  he  saw  that 
she  had  been  crying.  But  he  was  too  much  occupied  with 
his  own  affairs  to  consider  the  matter  very  deeply,  and  then 
girls  cried  so  easily. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  let  us  go  round  by  the  road  and  the 
Chapel — it's  a  splendid  night;  besides,  we  don't  seem  to 
have  met  recently.  We've  both  been  busy,  I  suppose,  and 
I've  a  good  deal  to  talk  about." 

"  If  you  like,"  she  said,  rather  listlessly.  It  would, 
at  least,  save  her  from  her  own  thoughts  and  protect  her 
perhaps  from  the  ceaseless  repetition  of  that  scene  of  three 
days  ago  when  she  had  turned  the  man  that  she  loved  more 
than  all  the  world  away  and  had  lied  to  him  because  she 
was  proud. 

And  so  at  first  she  scarcely  listened  to  him.  They 
walked  down  the  road  that  ran  along  the  top  of  the  cliff  and 
the  great  eye  of  the  lighthouse  wheeled  upon  them,  flashed 
and  vanished ;  she  saw  the  room  with  its  dingy  carpet  and 
wide  open  window,  and  she  heard  his  voice  again  and  saw 
his  hands  clenched — oh !  she  had  been  a  fine  fool !  So  it 
was  little  wonder  that  she  did  not  hear  his  son. 

But  Robin  had  at  last  an  audience  and  he  knew  no  mercy. 
All  the  agitation  of  the  last  week  came  pouring  forth — he 
lost  all  sense  of  time  and  place ;  he  was  at  the  end  of  the 
world  addressing  infinity  on  the  subject  of  his  woes,  and  it 
says  a  good  deal  for  his  vanity  and  not  much  for  his  sense 
of  humour  that  he  did  not  feel  the  lack  of  proportion  in 
such  a  position. 


268  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

"  It  was  a  girl,  you  know — ^perhaps  you've  met  her — a 
Miss  Eeverel — Dahlia  Eeverel.  I  met  her  at  Cambridge 
and  we  got  rather  thick,  and  then  I  wrote  to  her — rot,  you 
know,  like  one  does — and  when  I  wanted  to  get  back  the 
letters  she  wouldn't  let  me  have  them,  and  she's  going  to 
use  them,  I'm  afraid,  for — well — Breach  of  Promise !  " 

He  paused  and  waited  for  the  effect  of  the  announce- 
ment, but  it  never  came ;  she  was  walking  quickly,  with  her 
head  lifted  to  catch  the  wind  that  blew  from  the  sea — he 
could  not  be  certain  that  she  had  heard. 

"  Breach  of  Promise !  "  he  repeated  impressively.  "  It 
would  be  rather  an  awful  thing  for  people  in  our  position 
if  it  really  came  to  that — it  would  be  beastly  for  me.  Of 
course,  I  meant  nothing  by  it — the  letters,  I  mean — a  chap 
never  does.  Everybody  at  Cambridge  talks  to  girls — the 
girls  like  it — but  she  took  it  seriously,  and  now  she  may 
bring  it  down  on  our  heads  at  any  time,  and  you  can't  think 
how  beastly  it  is  waiting  for  it  to  come.  We've  done  all  we 
could — all  of  us — and  now  I  can  tell  you  it's  been  worry- 
ing me  like  anything  wondering  what  she's  done.  My 
uncle  and  aunt  both  tried  and  failed;  I  was  rather  disap- 
pointed, because  after  all  one  would  have  thought  that  they 
would  be  able  to  deal  with  a  thing  like  that,  wouldn't 
one  ?  " 

He  paused  again,  but  she  only  said  "  Yes  "  and  hurried 
on. 

"  So  now  I'm  at  my  wits'  end  and  I  thought  that  you 
might  help  me." 

"  Why  not  your  father  ?  "  she  said  suddenly. 

"  Ah !  that's  just  it,"  he  answered  eagerly.  "  That's 
where  I  wanted  you  to  give  me  your  advice.  You  see — 
well,  it's  a  little  hard  to  explain — we  weren't  very  nice  to 


THE  WOODEI^r  HOKSE  269 

the  pater  when  he  came  back  first — the  first  day  or  two,  I 
mean.  He  was — well,  different — didn't  look  at  things  as 
we  did ;  liked  different  things  and  had  strong  views  about 
things  like  knocking  down  the  Cove.  So  we  went  on  our 
way  and  didn't  pay  much  attention  to  him — I  daresay  he's 
told  you  all  about  it — and  I'm  sorry  enough  now,  although 
it  really  was  largely  his  own  fault !  I  don't  think  he 
seemed  to  want  us  to  have  much  to  do  with  him,  and  then 
one  day  Clare  spoke  to  him  about  things  and  asked  him  to 
consider  us  a  little  and  he  flared  up. 

"  Well,  I've  a  sort  of  idea  that  he  could  help  us  now — at 
any  rate,  there's  no  one  else.  Aunt  Clare  said  that  she 
would  ask  him,  but  you  know  him  better  than  any  of  us, 
and,  of  course,  it  is  a  little  difficult  for  us,  after  the  way 
that  we've  spoken  to  him ;  you  might  help  us,  I  thought." 

He  couldn't  be  sure,  even  now,  that  Mary  had  been  listen- 
ing— she  looked  so  strange  this  evening  that  he  was  afraid 
of  her,  and  half  wished  that  he  had  kept  his  affairs  to  him- 
self. She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  because  she  was  won- 
dering what  it  was  that  Harry  had  really  done  about  the 
letters.  It  was  amusing,  because  they  obviously  didn't 
know  that  she  had  told  him — but  what  had  he  done  ? 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  help  you,  Eobin  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  he  answered  eagerly.  "  You  know 
him  so  well  and  could  get  him  to  do  things  that  he  would 
never  do  for  us.  I'm  afraid  of  him,  or  rather  have  been 
just  lately.  I  don't  know  what  there  is  about  him  ex- 
actly." 

"  You  want  me  to  help  you  ?  "  she  asked  again.  "  Well 
then,  you've  got  to  put  up  with  a  bit  of  my  mind — you've 
caught  me  in  a  bad  mood,  and  I  don't  care  whether  it  hurts 
you  or  not — you're  in  for  a  bit  of  plain  speaking." 


270  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  surprise,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Oh,  I  know  I'm  no  very  great  person  myself,"  she 
went  on  quickly — almost  fiercely.  "  I've  only  known  in 
the  last  few  weeks  how  rotten  one  can  really  be,  but  at 
least  I  have  known — I  do  know — and  that's  just  what  you 
don't.  We've  been  friends  for  some  time,  you  and  I — 
but  if  you  don't  look  out,  we  shan't  be  friends  much 
longer." 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"  You  were  never  very  much  good,"  she  went  on,  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  his  question,  "  and  always  conceited, 
but  that  was  your  aunt's  fault  as  much  as  any  one's,  and 
she  gave  you  that  idea  of  your  family — that  you  were 
God's  own  chosen  people  and  that  no  one  could  come 
within  speaking  distance  of  you — you  had  that  when  you 
were  quite  a  little  boy,  and  you  seem  to  have  thought  that 
that  was  enough,  that  you  need  never  do  anything  all  your 
life  just  because  you  were  a  Trojan.  Eton  helped  the 
idea,  and  when  you  went  up  to  Cambridge  you  were  a 
snob  of  the  first  order.  I  thought  Cambridge  would  knock 
it  out  of  you,  but  it  didn't;  it  encouraged  you,  and  you 
were  always  with  people  who  thought  like  you  did,  and 
you  fancied  that  your  own  little  corner  of  the  earth — your 
own  little  potato-patch — was  better  than  every  one 
else's  gardens;  I  thought  you  were  a  pretty  poor  thing 
when  you  came  back  from  Cambridge  last  year,  but  now 
you've  beaten  my  expectations  by  a  good  bit " 

"  I  say — "  he  broke  in — "  really  I — "  but  she  went  on 
unheeding — 

"  Instead  of  working  and  doing  something  like  any 
decent  man  would,  you  loafed  along  with  your  friends 
learning  to  tie  your  tie  and  choosing  your  waistcoat-but- 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  271 

tons ;  you  go  and  make  love  to  a  decent  girl  and  then  when 
you've  tired  of  her  tell  her  so,  and  seem  surprised  at  her 
hitting  back. 

"  Then  at  last,  when  there  is  a  chance  of  your  seeing 
what  a  man  is  like — that  he  isn't  only  a  man  who  dresses 
decently  like  a  tailor's  model — when  your  father  comes 
back  and  asks  you  to  spend  a  few  of  your  idle  hours  with  ^ 
him,  you  laugh  at  him,  his  manners,  his  habits,  his  friends, 
his  way  of  thinking;  you  insult  him  and  cut  him  dead — 
your  father,  one  of  the  finest  men  in  the  world.  Why,  you 
aren't  fit  to  brush  his  clothes! — but  that  isn't  the  worst! 
Now — when  you  find  you're  in  a  hole  and  you  want  some 
one  to  help  you  out  of  it  and  you  don't  know  where  to 
turn,  you  suddenly  think  of  your  father.  He  wasn't  any 
good  before — he  was  rough  and  stupid,  almost  vulgar,  but 
now  that  he  can  help  you,  you'll  turn  and  play  the  duti- 
ful son ! 

"  That's  you  as  you  are,  Kobin  Trojan — you  asked  me 
for  it  and  you've  got  it;  it's  just  as  well  that  you  should 
see  yourself  as  you  are  for  once  in  your  life — you'll  for- 
get it  all  again  soon  enough.  I'm  not  saying  it's  only  you 
— it's  the  lot  of  you — idle,  worthless,  snobbish,  empty,  use- 
less. Help  you  ?  jSTo !  You  can  go  to  your  father  your- 
self and  think  yourself  lucky  if  he  will  speak  to  you." 

Mary  stopped  for  lack  of  breath.  Of  course,  he 
couldn't  know  that  she'd  been  attacking  herself  as  much 
as  him,  that,  had  it  not  been  for  that  scene  three  days  ago, 
she  would  never  have  spoken  at  all. 

"  I  say !  "  he  said  quietly,  "  is  it  really  as  bad  as  that  ? 
Am  I  that  sort  of  chap  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  know  it  now  at  least." 

"  It's  not  quite  fair.     I  am  only  like  the  rest.     I " 


272  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

"  Yes,  but  why  should  you  be  ?  Eancy  being  proud 
that  you  are  like  the  rest !     One  of  a  crowd !  " 

They  turned  up  the  road  to  her  house,  and  she  began  to 
relent  when  she  saw  that  he  was  not  angry. 

"  No,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head  slowly,  "  I  expect 
you're  about  right,  Mary.  Things  have  been  happening 
lately  that  have  made  everything  different — I've  been 
thinking  ...  I  see  my  father  differently.  .  .  ." 

Then,  "  How  could  you  ?  "  she  cried.  "  You  to  cut  him 
and  turn  him  out  ?  Oh !  Eobin !  you  weren't  always  that 
sort " 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  I  wasn't  once.  In  Germany  I 
was  different — when  I  got  away  from  things — but  it's 
harder  here  " — and  then  again  slowly — "  But  am  I  really 
as  bad  as  that,  Mary  ?  " 

Sudden  compunction  seized  her.  What  right  had  she 
to  speak  to  him?  After  all,  he  was  only  a  boy,  and  she 
was  every  bit  as  bad  herself. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know !  "  she  said  wearily.  "  I'm  all  out 
of  sorts  to-night,  Eobin.  We're  neither  of  us  fit  to  speak 
to  him,  and  you've  treated  him  badly,  all  of  you — I 
oughtn't  to  have  spoken  as  I  did,  perhaps;  but  here  we 
are !  You'd  better  forget  it,  and  another  day  I'll  tell  you 
some  of  the  nice  things  about  you " 

"  Am  I  that  sort  of  chap  ?  "  he  said  again,  staring  in 
front  of  him  with  his  hand  on  the  gate.  She  said  good- 
night and  left  him  standing  in  the  road.  He  turned  up 
the  hill,  with  his  head  bent.  He  was  scarcely  surprised 
and  not  at  all  angry.  It  only  seemed  the  climax  to  so 
many  things  that  had  happened  lately — "  a  snob  " — "  a 
pretty  poor  thing  " — "  You  don't  work,  you  learn  to  choose 
your  waistcoat-buttons  " — that  was  the  kind  of  chap  he 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  273 

was.  And  his  father :  "  One  of  the  finest  men  there 
is — "  He'd  missed  his  chance,  perhaps,  he  would  never 
get  it  again !     But  he  would  try ! 

He  passed  into  the  garden  and  fimihled  for  his  latch- 
key.    He  would  speak  to  his  father  to-morrow ! 

Mary  was  quite  right  ...  he  was  a  "  pretty  poor 
thing !  " 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THAT  night  was  never  forgotten  by  any  one  at  "  The 
Plutes."  Down  in  the  servants'  hall  they  prolonged 
their  departure  for  bed  to  a  very  late  hour,  and  then 
crept,  timorously,  to  their  rooms;  they  were  extravagant 
with  the  electric  light,  and  dared  Benham's  anger  in  order 
to  secure  a  little  respite  from  terrible  darkness.  Stories 
were  recalled  of  Sir  Jeremy's  kindness  and  good-nature, 
and  much  speculation  was  indulged  in  as  to  his  successor 
— the  cook  recalled  her  early  youth  and  an  engagement 
with  a  soldier  that  aroused  such  sympathy  in  her  hearers 
that  she  fraternised,  unexpectedly,  with  Clare's  maid — a 
girl  who  had  formerly  been  considered  "  hauty,"  but  was 
now  found  to  be  agreeable  and  pleasant. 

Above  stairs  there  was  the  same  restlessness  and  sense 
of  uneasy  expectancy.  Clare  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep. 
Her  mind  was  not  with  her  father — she  had  been  wait- 
ing for  his  death  during  many  long  weeks,  and  now  that 
the  time  had  arrived  she  could  scarcely  think  of  it  other- 
wise than  calmly.  If  one  had  lived  like  a  Trojan  one 
f  would  die  like  one — quietly,  becomingly,  in  accordance 
with  the  best  traditions.  She  was  sure  that  there  would  be 
I  something  ready  for  Trojans  in  the  next  world  a  little 
different  from  other  folks'  destiny — something  select  and 
refined — so  why  worry  at  going  to  meet  it  ? 

No,  it  was  not  Sir  Jeremy,  but  Eobin.     Throughout  the 

night  she  heard  the  clocks  striking  the  quarters ;  the  first 

274 


\ 


THE  WOODEK  HOESE  2T5 

light  of  dawn  crept  timidly  tlirougli  the  sliuttered  blinds, 
the  full  blaze  of  the  sun  streamed  on  to  her  bed — and  she 
could  not  sleej).  The  conversation  of  the  day  before  re- 
called itself  syllable  for  syllable;  she  read  into  it  things- 
that  had  never  been  there  and  tortured  herself  with  sus- 
picion and  doubt.  Kobin  was  different — utterly  differ-  • 
ent.  He  was  different  even  from  a  week  ago  when  he  ■ 
had  first  told  them  of  the  affair.  She  could  hear  his  voice 
as  he  had  bent  over  her  asking  her  to  forgive  him;  that 
had  seemed  to  her  then  the  hour  of  her  triumph — but  now 
she  saw  that  it  was  the  premonition  of  defeat.  How  she 
had  worked  for  him,  loved  him,  spoilt  him;  and  now,  in 
these  weeks,  her  lifework  was  utterly  undone.  And  then, 
in  the  terrible  loneliness  of  her  room,  with  the  darkness 
on  the  world  and  round  her  bed  and  at  her  heart,  she  wept 
— terrible,  tearless  sobbing  that  left  her  in  the  morning 
weak,  unstrung,  utterly  unequal  to  the  day. 

This  conversation  with  Eobin  had  also  worried  Gar- 
rett. The  consolation  that  he  had  frequently  found  in  the 
reassuring  comforts  of  his  study  seemed  utterly  wanting  to- 
night. The  stillness  irritated  him ;  it  seemed  stuffy,  close, 
and  he  had  an  overmastering  desire  for  a  companion. 
This  desire  he  conquered,  because  he  felt  that  it  would  be 
scarcely  dignified  to  search  the  byways  of  the  house  for  a 
friend;  but  he  listened  for  steps,  and  fancied  over  and 
over  again  that  he  heard  the  eagerly  anticipated  knock. 
But  no  one  came,  and  he  sat  far  into  the  night,  fancying 
strange  sounds  and  trembling  at  the  dark ;  and  at  last  fell 
asleep  in  his  chair,  and  was  discovered  in  an  undignified 
position  on  the  floor  in  the  early  morning  by  the  politely 
astonished  Benham. 

But  it  was  for  Harry  that  the  night  most  truly  marked  a 


L 


276  THE  WOODEK  HORSE 

crisis.  He  spent  it  in  vigil  by  tlie  side  of  his  father,  and 
watched  the  heavy  passing  of  the  hours  like  grey  solemn 
figures  through  the  darkened  room.  The  faint  glimmer 
of  the  electric  light,  heavily  shaded,  assumed  fantastic  and 
portentous  shapes  and  fleecy  enormous  shadows  on  the 
white  surface  of  the  staring  walls.  Strange  blue  shadows 
glimmered  through  the  black  caverns  of  the  windows,  and 
faint  lights  came  from  beneath  the  door,  and  hovered  on 
the  ceiling  like  mysteriously  moving  figures. 

Sir  Jeremy  was  perfectly  still.  Death  had  come  to 
him  very  gently  and  had  laid  its  hand  quietly  upon  him, 
with  no  violence  or  harshness.  It  was  only  old  a^e  that ' 
had  greeted  him  as  a  friend,  and  then  with  a  smile  hady 
persuaded  him  to  go.  He  was  unconscious  now.  but  at 
any  moment  his  senses  might  return,  and  then  he  would 
ask  for  Harry.  The  crisis  might  come  at  any  time,  and 
Harry  must  be  there. 

He  felt  no  weariness;  his  brain  was  extraordinarily 
active  and  he  passed  every  incident  since  his  return  in  re- 
view. It  all  seemed  so  clear  to  him  now ;  the  inevitability 
of  it  all ;  and  his  own  blindness  in  escaping  the  meaning  of 
it.  It  seemed  now  that  he  had  known  nothing  of  the 
world  at  all  three  weeks  ago.  Then  he  had  judged  it 
from  his  own  knowledge — now  he  saw  it  in  many  lights; 
the  point  of  view  of  Eobin,  of  Dahlia  Eeverel,  of  Clare,  of 
Sir  Jeremy,  of  Bethel,  of  Mary — he  had  arrived  at  the 
great  knowledge  that  Life  could  be  absolutely  right  for 
many  different  sorts  of  people — that  the  same  life,  like  a  ; 
globe  of  flashing  colours,  could  shine  into  every  corner  of  \ 
obscurity,  gleaming  differently  in  every  different  place 
and  yet  be  unchangeable.  Murderer,  robber,  violater, 
saint,  priest,  king,  beggar — they  were  all  parts  of  a  won- 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  277 

derful,  inevitable  world,  and,  he  saw  it  now,  were  all  of 
them  essential.  He  had  been  tolerant  before  from  a  wide- 
embracing  charity;  he  was  tolerant  now  from  a  wide- 
embracing  knowledge:  "  Er  liebte  jeden  Hund  und 
wiinschte  von  jedem  Hund  geliebt  zii  sein." 

They  had  all  learnt  in  that  last  three  weeks.  Dahlia 
Feverel  would  pass  into  the  world  with  that  struggle  at 
her  heart  and  the  streng-th  of  her  victory — his  father  would 
solve  the  gTeatest  question  of  all — Eobin !  Mary ! 
Clare! — they  had  all  been  learning  too,  but  what  it  was 
that  they  had  learnt  he  could  not  yet  tell;  the  conclusion 
of  the  matter  was  to  come.  But  it  had  all  been,  for  him 
at  least,  only  a  prelude;  he  was  to  stand  for  the  world  as 
head  of  the  House,  he  had  his  life  before  him  and  his 
work  to  do,  he  had  only,  like  Robin,  just  "  come  of  age." 

He  did  not  know  why,  but  he  had  no  longer  any  doubt. 
He  knew  that  he  would  win  Kobin,  he  knew  that  he  would 
win  Mary;  up  to  that  day  he  had  been  uncertain,  vacil- 
lating, miserable — but  now  he  had  no  longer  any  hesita- 
tion. The  work  of  his  life  was  to  fit  Eobin  for  his  due 
succession,  and,  j)lease  God,  he  would  do  it  with  all  his 
heart  and  soul  and  strength ;  there  was  to  be  no  false  senti- 
ment, no  shifting  of  difficult  questions,  no  hiding  from 
danger,  no  sheltering  blindly  under  unquestioned  creeds, 
no  false  bids  for  popularity. 

Eobin  was  to  be  clean,  and  straight,  and  sane,  with  all 
the  sturdy  cleanliness  and  strength  and  sanity  that  his 
father's  love  and  knowledge  could  give  him. 

Oh !  he  loved  his  son ! — but  no  longer  blindly,  as  he  had 
loved  him  three  weeks  ago  .  .  .  and  so  he  faced  his  fu- 
ture. 

And  of  Mary,  too,  he  was  sure.     He  knew  that  she  loved 


278  THE  WOODEN  HOKSE 

him;  he  had  seen  her  face  in  the  mirror  as  her  lips  had 
said  "  No/'  and  he  saw  that  her  heart  had  said  ''  Yes." 
With  the  new  strength  that  had  come  to  him  he  vowed  to 
force  her  defences  and  carry  her  away.  .  .  .  Oh!  he 
could  be  any  knight  and  fight  for  any  lady. 

But  as  he  sat  by  the  bed,  watching  the  dawn  struggle 
through  the  blinds  and  listening  to  the  faint,  clear  twitter- 
ing of  birds  in  the  grey,  dew-swept  garden — he  wished 
that  he  could  tell  his  father  of  his  engagement.  He  won- 
dered if  there  would  be  time.  That  it  would  please  the 
old  man  he  knew,  and  it  would  seal  the  compact,  and 
place  a  secret  blessing  on  their  married  life  together. 
Yes,  he  would  like  to  tell  him. 

The  clocks  struck  five — he  heard  their  voices  echo 
through  the  house ;  and,  at  the  last,  the  tiny  voice  of  the 
cuckoo  clock  sounded  and  the  little  wild  flap  of  his  wings 
came  quite  clearly  through  the  silence;  his  voice  was  an- 
swered by  a  chorus  from  the  garden,  the  voices  of  the 
birds  seemed  to  grow  ever  louder  and  louder;  in  that 
strange  dark  room,  with  its  shaded  lights  and  heavy  airs, 
it  was  clear  and  fresh  like  the  falling  of  water  on  cold, 
shining  stone. 

Harry  went  softly  to  the  window  and  drew  back  a  cor- 
ner of  the  blind.  The  dawn  was  gradually  revealing  the 
forms  and  colours  of  the  garden,  and  in  the  grey,  misty 
light  things  were  mysterious  and  uncertain;  like  white 
lights  in  a  dusky  room  the  two  white  statues  shone  through 
the  mist.  At  that  strange  hour  they  seemed  in  their  right 
atmosphere ;  they  seemed  to  move  and  turn  and  bend — he 
could  have  fancied  that  they  sailed  on  the  mist — that,  for 
a  moment,  they  had  vanished  and  then  that  they  had  grown 
enormous,  monstrous.     He  watched  them  eagerly,  and  as 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  279 

the  light  grew  clearer  he  made  them  out  more  plainly — 
the  straight,  eager  beauty  of  the  man,  the  dim,  mysterious 
grace  of  the  woman.  Perhaps  they  talked  in  those  early 
hours  when  they  were  alone  in  the  garden;  perhaps  they 
might  speak  to  him  if  he  were  to  join  them  then.  Then 
he  fancied  that  the  mist  formed  into  figures  of  men  and 
women;  to  his  excited  fancy  the  garden  seemed  peopled 
with  shapes  that  increased  and  dwindled  and  vanished. 
Eound  the  statues  many  shapes  gathered;  one  in  especial 
seemed  to  walk  to  and  fro  with  its  face  turned  to  the  house. 
It  was  a  woman — her  grey  dress  floated  in  the  air,  and  he 
saw  her  form  outlined  against  the  statue.  Then  the  mist 
seemed  to  sweep  down  again  and  catch  the  statues  in  its 
eddies  and  hide  them  from  his  gaze.  The  dawn  was 
breaking  very  slowly.  From  the  window  the  sweep  of  the 
sea  was,  in  daylight,  perfectly  visible:  now  in  the  dim 
grey  of  the  sky  it  was  hidden — but  Harry  knew  where  it 
must  be  and  watched  for  its  appearance.  The  first  lights 
were  creeping  over  the  sky,  breaking  in  delicate  tints  and 
ripples  of  silver  and  curving,  arc-shaped,  from  the  west  to 
the  east. 

Where  sky  and  sea  divided  a  faint  pale  line  of  grey 
hovered  and  broke,  turning  into  other  paler  lights  of  the 
most  delicate  blue.     The  dawn  had  come. 

He  turned  back  again  to  the  garden  and  started  with 
sur[)rise :  in  the  more  certain  light  there  was  no  doubt  that 
it  was  a  woman  who  stood  there  by  the  statues,  guarding 
the  first  early  beauties  of  the  garden.  Everything  was 
pearl-grey,  save  where,  high  above  the  water  of  the  foun- 
tain that  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn,  the  sky  had 
broken  into  a  little  lake  of  the  palest  blue  and  this  was 
reflected  in  the  still  mirror  of  the  fountain — but  it  was  a 


280  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

■woman.  He  could  see  the  outline  of  lier  form — the  Lend 
of  her  neck  as  she  turned  with  her  face  to  the  house,  the 
straight  line  of  her  arms  as  they  fell  at  her  sides.  And, 
as  he  looked,  his  heart  began  to  beat  thicklj.  He  seemed 
to  recognise  that  carriage  of  the  body  from  the  hips,  the 
fling-back  of  the  head  as  she  stared  towards  the  windows. 

The  light  of  the  dawn  was  breaking  over  the  garden, 
the  chorus  of  the  birds  was  loud  in  the  trees,  and  he  knew 
that  it  was  no  dream. 

He  glanced  for  a  moment  at  his  father,  and  then  crept 
softly  from  the  room.  He  found  one  of  the  nurses  mak- 
ing tea  over  a  sj^irit-lamp  in  the  dressing-room  and  asked 
her  to  take  his  place. 

The  house  was  perfectly  silent  as  he  opened  the  French 
window  of  the  drawing-room  and  stepped  on  to  the  lawn. 
The  grass  was  heavy  with  dew  and  the  fresh  air  beat 
about  his  face;  he  had  never  known  anything  quite  so 
fresh — the  air,  the  grass,  the  trees,  the  birds'  song  like  the 
sound  of  hidden  waters  tumbling  on  to  some  unseen  rock. 

Her  face  was  turned  away  from  him  and  his  feet  made 
no  sound  on  the  grass.  He  came  perfectly  silently  to- 
wards her,  and  then  when  he  saw  that  it  had  indeed  been 
no  imagination  but  that  it  was  reality,  and  when  he  knew 
all  that  her  coming  there  meant  and  what  it  implied,  for 
a  moment  his  limbs  shook  so  that  he  could  scarcely  stand. 
Then  he  laughed  a  little  and  said  "  Mary !  " 

She  turned  with  a  little  cry,  and  when  she  saw  who  it 
was  the  crimson  flooded  her  face,  changing  it  as  the  rising 
sun  was  soon  to  change  the  grey  of  the  sea  and  the  garden. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried,  "  I  didn't  know — I  didn't  mean. 
I " 

"  It  is  going  to  be  a  lovely  day,"  he  said  quietly,  "  the 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  281 

sun  will  be  up  in  a  moment.     I  have  been  watching  you 
from  mj  father's  window." 

"  Oh !  You  mustn't !  "  she  cried  eagerly.  "  I  thought 
that  I  was  safe — absolutely;  I  was  here  quite  by  chance 
— really  I  was — I  couldn't  sleep,  and  I  thought  that  I 
would  watch  the  sunrise  over  the  sea — and  I  went  down  to 
the  beach — and  then — well,  there  was  the  little  wood  by 
your  garden,  and  it  was  so  wonderfully  still  and  silent, 
and  I  saw  those  statues  gleaming  through  the  trees,  and 
they  looked  so  beautiful  that  I  came  nearer.  I  meant  to 
come  only  for  a  moment  and  then  go  away  again — but — I 
— stayed " 

But  he  could  scarcely  hear  what  she  said;  he  only  saw 
her  standing  there  with  her  dress  trembling  a  little  in  the 
breeze. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  you  did  not  mean  what  you  told  me 
the  other  day  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  suddenly 
flung  out  her  hands  and  touched  his  coat.  "  No,"  she  an- 
swered. 

For  a  moment  they  were  utterly  silent.  Then  he  leaned 
forward  and  flung  his  arms  round  her  and  crushed  her  in 
his  grip. 

"  I  love  you !     My  God !     How  I  love  you !  " 

Her  hair  was  about  his  face,  for  a  moment  her  face  was 
buried  in  his  coat,  then  she  lifted  it  and  their  lips  met. 

A  noise  was  in  his  ears  like  the  "beating  of  all  the  waves 
in  the  sea ;  he  shook  from  head  to  foot — he  crushed  her  to 
him  so  that  she  could  not  breathe — then  he  released  her. 

She  glanced  up  at  him  with  her  hand  still  touching  his 
coat  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  will  love  you  and  serve  you  and  honour  you  for  all 


282  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

eternity,"  she  said.  She  took  his  arm  and  they  passed 
down  the  lawn  and  watched  the  light  breaking  over  the 
sea.  The  sky  was  broken  into  thousands  of  fleecy  clouds 
of  mother-of-pearl — the  sea  was  trembling  as  though  the 
sun  had  whispered  that  it  was  near  at  hand,  and,  on  the 
horizon,  the  first  bars  of  pale  gold  heralded  its  coming. 

"  I  have  loved  you,"  he  said,  '^  since  the  first  moment 
that  I  saw  you — I  gave  you  tea  and  muffins;  I  deserted 
the  Miss  Ponsonbys  in  order  to  serve  you." 

"  And  I  too !  "  she  answered.  "  I  could  not  eat  the 
mufiin  for  love  of  you,  and  I  was  jealous  of  the  Miss 
Ponsonbys !  " 

"  Why  did  you  turn  me  out  the  other  day  ?  " 

"  Ah,  they  had  been  talking — mother  and  the  others ; 
and  I  was  hurt  terribly,  and  I  thought  that  you  would 
hear  what  they  had  said  and  would  think,  perhaps,  that  it 
was  true  and  would  despise  me.  And  then  after  you  had 
gone,  I  knew  that  nothing  in  the  world  could  make  any 
difference — that  they  could  say  what  they  pleased,  but  that 
I  could  not  live  without  you — ^j'ou  see  I  am  very  young !  " 

"  Oh,  and  I  am  so  old,  dear !  You  mustn't  forget  that ! 
Do  you  think  that  you  could  ever  put  up  with  any  one  as 
old  as  I  am  ?  " 

She  laughed.  "  You  are  just  the  same  age  as  myself," 
she  cried.  "  You  will  always  be  the  same  age,  and  I  am 
not  sure  but  I  think  that  you  are  younger " 

And  suddenly  the  sun  had  risen — a  great  ball  of  fire 
changing  all  the  blue  of  the  sky  to  red  and  gold,  and  they 
watched  as  the  gods  had  watched  the  flaming  ruin  of 
Valhalla. 

But  the  daylight  drove  them  to  other  thoughts. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  she  said.     "  I  will  go  down  to  the 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  283 

shore  and  perhaps  will  meet  father.  Oh !  you  don't  know 
what  I  have  suffered  during  these  last  few  days.  I 
thought  that  perhaps  I  had  driven  you  away  and  that  you 
would  never  come  back — and  then  I  had  a  silly  idea  that 
I  would  watch  your  windows — and  so  I  came " 

"  Why !  I  have  watched  yours !  "  he  cried — "  often ! 
Oh !  we  will  have  some  times !  " 

"  But  you  must  remember  that  there  will  be  three  of 
us,"  she  answered.     "  There  is  Eobin !  " 

"  Eobin !  Why,  it  will  be  splendid !  You  and  Eobin 
and  I ! " 

"  Poor  Eobin — "  she  laughed.  "  You  don't  know  how 
I  scolded  him  last  night.  It  was  about  you  and  I  was  un- 
happy. He  is  changing  fast,  and  it  is  because  of  you.  He 
has  come  round " 

"  We  have  all  come  round !  "  cried  Harry.  "  He  and 
you  and  I !  Oh !  this  is  the  beginning  of  the  world  for  all 
of  us — and  I  am  forty-five!  Will  you  write  to  me  later 
in  the  day  ?  I  cannot  get  down  until  to-night.  My  father 
is  very  ill — I  must  be  here.  But  write  to  me — a  long 
letter — it  will  be  as  though  you  were  talking." 

She  laughed.  "  I  will  write  all  the  morning,"  she 
cried ;  then  she  looked  at  him  again — "  I  love  you,"  she 
said,  as  though  she  were  reciting  her  faith,  "  because  you 
are  good,  because  you.  are  strong,  because — oh!  for  no 
reason  at  all — just  because  you  are  you." 

For  a  moment  they  watched  the  sea,  and  then  again 
he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  as  though  he 
would  never  let  her  go — then  she  vanished  through  the 
trees. 

The  house  was  waking  into  life  as  he  re-entered  it; 
servants  were  astir  at  an  early  hour:  he  had  been  away 


284  THE  WOODEK  HORSE 

such  a  little  time,  but  the  world  was  another  place.  Every 
detail  of  the  house — the  stairs,  the  hall,  the  windows,  the 
clocks,  the  pot-pourri  scent  from  the  bowls  of  dried  roses, 
the  dance  of  the  dust  in  the  light  of  the  rising  sun,  was 
presented  to  him  now  with  a  new  meaning.  He  was  glad 
that  she  had  stayed  with  him  such  a  little  while — it  made 
it  more  precious,  her  coming  with  the  shadows  in  that  grey 
of  breaking  skies  and  a  mysterious  plunging  sea,  and  then 
vanishing  with  the  rising  sun.  Oh!  they  would  come 
down  to  earth  soon  enough ! — let  him  keep  that  kiss,  those 
few  words,  her  last  smile  as  she  vanished  into  the  wood, 
like  the  visible  signs  of  the  other  world  that  had,  at  last, 
been  allowed  to  him.  The  vision  of  the  Grail  Ijad  passed 
from  his  eyes,  but  the  memory  of  it  was  to  be  his  most 
sacred  possession. 

He  went  to  his  room,  had  a  bath,  and  then  returned  to 
his  father;  of  course,  he  could  not  sleep. 

Clare,  Garrett,  and  Robin  met  at  breakfast  with  the 
sense  of  approaching  calamity  heavy  upon  them.  As  far 
as  Sir  Jeremy  himself  was  concerned  there  was  little  real 
regret — how  could  there  be?  Of  course,  there  was  the 
sentiment  of  separation,  thp  breaking  of  a  great  many  ties 
that  had  been  strong  and  traditional ;  but  it  was  better  that 
the  old  man  should  go — of  that  there  was  no  question. 
Sir  Jeremy  himself  would  rather.  ]^o,  "  Le  roi  est  mort  " 
was  easy  enough  to  say,  but  how  "  Vive  le  roi "  stuck  in 
their  throats. 

Garrett  hinted  at  a  wretched  night,  and  quoted  Benham 
on  the  dangers  of  an  arm-chair  at  night-time. 

"  Of  course,  one  had  been  thinking,"  he  said  vaguely, 
after  a  melancholy  survey  of  eggs  and  bacon  that  developed 
into  resignation  over  dry  toast — "  there  was  a  good  deal 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  285 

to  think  about.  But  I  certainly  had  intended  to  go  to 
bed — I  can't  imagine  what " 

Eobin  said  nothing.  His  mind  was  busy  with  Mary's 
speech  of  the  night  before;  his  world  lay  crumbled  about 
him,  and,  like  Cato,  he  was  finding  a  certain  melancholy 
satisfaction  in  its  ruins.  His  thoughts  were  scarcely  with 
his  grandfather;  he  felt  vaguely  that  there  was  Death  in 
the  house  and  that  its  immediate  presence  was  one  of  the 
things  that  had  helped  to  bring  the  house  of  his  self-con- 
tent about  his  ears.  But  it  was  of  his  father  that  he  was 
thinking,  and  of  a  certain  morning  when  he  had  refused 
a  walk.     If  he  got  a  chance  again ! 

Clare  looked  wretched.  Eobin  thought  that  she  had 
never  seemed  so  ill  before;  there  was,  for  the  first  time, 
an  air  of  carelessness  about  her,  as  though  she  had  flung 
on  her  clothes  anyhow — something  utterly  unlike  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  speak  to  Harry  this  morning,"  she  said. 

Garrett  looked  up  peevishly.  "  Scarcely  the  time, 
Clare.  I  should  say  that'  it  were  better  for  us  to  wait 
until — well,  afterwards.  There  is,  perhaps,  something  a 
little  indecent " 

"  I  have  considered  the  matter  carefully,"  interrupted 
Clare  decisively.     "  This  is  the  best  time " 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course.  Only  I  should  have  thought 
that  I  might  have  had  just  a  little  say  in  the  matter.  I 
was,  after  all,  originally  consulted  as  well  as  yourself.  I 
saw  the  girl,  and  was  even,  I  might  venture  to  suggest, 
with  her  for  some  time.     But,  of  course,  a  mere  man's 


?? 


opinion— 

"  Oh,  don't  be  absurd,  Garrett.  It  is  I  that  have  to 
ask  him — it  is  pretty  obvious  that  I  have  every  right  to 
choose  my  own  time." 


286  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

"  Oh !  Please,  don't  let  me  interfere — only  I  should 
scarcely  have  thought  that  this  was  quite  the  moment  when 
Harry  would  be  most  inclined  to  listen  to  you." 

"  If  we  don't  ask  him  now,"  she  answered,  "  there's  no 
knowing  when  we  shall  have  the  opportunity.  "When 
poor  father  is  gone  he  will  have  an  enormous  amount 
to  settle  and  decide;  he  will  have  no  time  for  anything 
at  all  for  months  ahead.  This  morning  is  our  last 
chance." 

But  she  had  another  thought.  Her  great  desire  now 
was  that  he  should  try  and  fail;  that  he  ivould  fail  she 
was  sure.  She  was  eagerly  impatient  for  that  day  when 
he  must  come  to  them  and  admit  his  failure.  She  looked 
ahead  and  fashioned  that  scene  for  herself — that  scene 
when  Eobin  should  know  and  confess  that  his  father  was 
only  as  the  rest  of  them;  that  their  failure  was  his  fail- 
ure, their  incapacity  his  incapacity — and  then  the  bal- 
ance would  be  restored  and  Eobin  would  see  as  he  had 
seen  before. 

"  Coffee,  Eobin  ?  It's  quite  hot  still.  I  saw  Dr. 
Brady  just  now.  He  says  that  there  is  no  change,  nor  is 
there  likely  to  be  one  for  some  hours.  You're  looking 
tired,  Eobin,  old  boy.  Have  you  been  sleeping  on  the 
floor,  too  ? " 

"  JSTo ! "  He  looked  up  and  smiled.  "  But  I  was 
awake  a  good  bit.  The  house  is  different  somehow, 
when " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know.  One  feels  it,  of  course.  But  eat- 
ing's much  the  best  thing  for  keeping  one's  spirits  up.  I 
suppose  Harry  is  coming  down.  Just  find  out  from  Ben- 
ham,  will  you.  Wilder,  whether  Mr.  Henry  is  coming 
down  ?  " 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  287 

The  footman  left  the  room,  returning  in  a  moment  with 
the  answer  that  Mr.  Henry  was  about  to  come  down. 

Garrett  moved  to  the  door,  but  Clare  stopped  him. 

"  I  want  you,  Garrett — you  can  bear  me  out !  " 

"  I  thought  that  my  opinion  was  of  so  little  impor- 
tance," he  answered  sulkily,  ^'  that  I  might  as  well  go." 

But  he  sat  down  again  and  buried  himself  in  his  paper. 

They  waited,  and  Robin  made  mental  comparisons  w^ith 
a  similar  scene  a  week  before;  there  were  still  the  silver 
teapot,  the  toast,  the  ham — they  were  all  there,  and  it 
was  only  he  himself  who  had  altered.  Only  a  week,  and 
what  a  difference!  What  a  cad  he  had  been!  a  howling 
cad !  ]^ot  only  to  his  father,  but  to  Dahlia,  to  every  one 
with  whom  he  had  had  to  do.  He  did  not  spare  himself ; 
he  had  at  least  the  pluck  to  go  through  with  it — that  was 
Trojan. 

At  Harry's  entrance  there  was  an  involuntary  raising 
of  eyebrows  to  see,  if  possible,  how  he  took  it;  it  being 
his  own  immediate  succession  rather  than  his  father's 
death.  He  was  grave,  of  course,  but  there  was  a  light  in 
his  eyes  that  Clare  could  not  understand.  Had  he  some 
premonition  of  her  request?  He  apologised  for  being 
late. 

"  I  have  been  up  most  of  the  night.  There  is  no  im- 
mediate danger  of  a  change,  but  we  ought,  I  think,  to  be 
ready.  Yes,  the  toast,  Robin,  please — I  hope  you've  slept 
all  right,  Clare  ?  " 

How  quickly  he  had  picked  up  the  manner,  she  re- 
flected, as  she  watched  him!  But  of  course  that  was 
natural  enough;  once  a  Trojan,  always  a  Trojan,  and  no 
amount  of  colonies  will  do  away  with  it.  But  three  weeks 
was  a  short  time  for  so  vast  a  change. 


288  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

"  N'o,  Harry,  not  very  well — of  course,  it  weighs  on 
one  rather." 

She  sighed  and  rose  from  the  breakfast-table ;  she  looked 
terribly  tired  and  Harry  was  suddenly  sorry  for  her,  and, 
for  the  first  time  since  the  night  of  his  return,  felt  that 
they  were  brother  and  sister;  but  after  the  adventure  of 
the  early  morning  it  was  as  though  he  were  related  to  the 
whole  world — Love  and  Death  had  drawn  close  to  him, 
and,  with  the  sound  of  the  beating  of  their  wings,  the  world 
had  revealed  things  to  him  that  had,  in  other  days,  been 
secrets.  Love  and  Death  were  such  big  things  that  his 
personal  relations  with  Clare,  with  Garrett,  even  with 
Eobin,  had  assumed  their  true  proportion. 

"  Clare,  you're  tired !  "  he  said.  "  I  should  go  and  lie 
down  again.     You  shall  be  told  if  anything  happens." 

"  No,  thanks,  Harry.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  something 
— but,  perhaps,  first  I  ought  to  apologise  for  some  of  the 
things  that  I  said  the  other  day.  I  said  more  than  I 
meant  to.  I  am  sorry — but  one  forgets  at  times  that  one 
has  no  right  to  meddle  in  other  people's  affairs.  But 
now — we— all  of  us — want  to  ask  you  a  favour " 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said,  looking  up. 

"  Well,  of  course,  this  is  scarcely  the  time.  But  it  is 
something  that  can  hardly  wait,  and  you  can  decide  about 
acting  yourself " 

She  paused.  It  was  the  very  hardest  thing  that  she 
had  ever  had  to  do,  and  she  would  never  forget  it  to  the  day 
of  her  death.  But  it  was  harder  for  Robin;  he  sat  there 
with  flaming  cheeks  and  his  head  hanging — he  could  not 
look  at  his  father. 

"It  is  to  do  with  Robin — "  Clare  went  on ;  " he  was 
rather  afraid  to  ask  you  about  it  himself,  because,  of 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  289 

course,  it  is  not  a  business  of  which  he  is  very  proud,  and 
so  he  has  asked  me  to  do  it  for  him.  It  is  a  girl — a  Miss 
Eeverel — whom  he  met  at  Cambridge  and  to  whom  he  had 
written  letters,  letters  that  gave  the  young  woman  some 
reasons  to  suppose  that  he  was  offering  her  marriage.  He 
saw  the  matter  more  wisely  after  a  time  and  naturally 
wished  Miss  Feverel  to  restore  the  letters,  but  this  she  re- 
fused to  do.  Both  Garrett  and  mvself  have  done  what 
we  could  and  have,  I  am  afraid,  failed.  Miss  Feverel  is 
quite  resolute — most  obstinately  so.  We  are  afraid  that 
she  may  take  steps  that  would  be  unpleasant  to  all  of  us — 
it  is  rather  worrying  us,  and  we  thought — it  seemed — in 
short,  I  determined  to  ask  you  to  help  us.  With  your 
wider  experience  you  will  probably  know  the  best  way  in 
which  to  deal  with  such  a  person." 

Clare  paused.  She  had  put  it  as  drily  as  possible,  but 
it  was,  nevertheless,  humiliating. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  am  scarcely  surprised,"  said  Harry,  "  that  Robin  is 
ashamed  of  the  affair." 

"  Of  course  he  is/'  answered  Clare  eagerly,  "  bitterly 
ashamed." 

"  I  suppose  you  made  love  to — ah — Miss  Feverel  ?  "  he 
said,  turning  directly  to  Robin. 

"  Yes,"  said  Robin,  lifting  his  head  and  facing  his 
father.     As  their  eyes  met  the  colour  rushed  to  his  cheeks. 

"  It  was  a  rotten  thing  to  do,"  said  Harry. 

"  I  have  been  very  much  ashamed  of  myself,"  answered 
Robin.  "  I  would  make  Miss  Feverel  any  apology  that  is 
in  my  power,  but  there  seems  to  be  little  that  I  can  do." 

Harry  said  no  more. 

"  I  am  really  sorry,"  said  Clare  at  last,  "  to  speak  about 


290  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

a  business  like  this  just  now — but  really  there  is  no  time 
to  lose.  I  am  sure  that  you  will  do  something  to  prevent 
trouble  in  the  Courts,  and  that  is  what  Miss  Feverel  seems 
to  threaten." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  see  her — to  see  her  and  try  and  arrange  some  com- 
promise  " 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  Robin  was  the  proper  per- 
son  " 

"  He  has  tried  and  failed ;  she  would  not  listen  to 
him." 

"  Then  I  am  afraid  that  she  will  not  listen  to  me — a 
perfect  stranger  with  no  claims  on  her  interest." 

"  It  is  precisely  that.  You  will  be  able  to  put  it  on  a 
business  footing,  because  sentiment  does  not  enter  into  the 
question  at  all." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  help  you,  Robin  ?  " 

At  the  direct  question  Robin  looked  up  again.  His 
father  looked  very  stern  and  judicial.  It  was  the  school- 
master rather  than  the  parent,  but,  after  all,  what  else 
could  he  exj^ect  ?  So  he  said,  quite  simply — "  Yes, 
father." 

But  at  this  moment  there  was  an  interruption.  With 
the  hurried  opening  of  the  door  there  came  the  sounds  of 
agitated  voices  and  steps  in  the  passage — then  Benham  ap- 
peared. 

"  Sir  Jeremy  is  worse,  Mr.  Henry.  The  doctor  thinks 
that,  perhaps " 

Harry  hurriedly  left  the  room.  Absolute  silence 
reigned.  The  sudden  arrival  of  the  long-expected  crisis 
was  terrifying.  They  sat  like  statues,  staring  in  front  of 
them  and  listening  eagerly  to  every  sound.     The  monoto- 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  291 

nous  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  was  terrifying 
— the  clock  on  the  wall  by  the  door  seemed  to  run  a  race. 
The  "  tick-tock  "  grew  faster  and  faster — at  last  it  was. 
as  if  both  clocks  were  screaming  aloud. 

The  room  was  filled  with  the  clamour,  and  through  it  all 
they  sat  motionless  and  silent. 

In  a  moment  Harry  had  returned.  "  All  of  you,"  he 
said  quickly — "  he  would  like  to  see  you — I  am 
afraid " 

After  that  Robin  was  confused  and  saw  nothing  clearly. 
As  he  crept  tremblingly  up  the  stairs  everything  assumed 
gigantic  and  menacing  shapes — the  clock,  the  pot-pourri 
bowls,  the  window-curtains,  and  the  brass  rods  on  the 
stairs.  In  the  room  there  was  that  grey  half-light  that 
seemed  so  terrible,  and  the  spurt  and  crackle  of  the  fire 
seemed  to  fill  the  place  with  sounds.  He  scarcely  saw  his 
grandfather.  In  the  centre  of  the  bed,  something  was 
lying;  the  eyes  gleamed  for  a  moment  in  the  light  of  the 
fire,  the  lips  seemed  to  move.  But  he  did  not  realise  that 
those  things  were  his  grandfather  whom  he  had  known 
for  so  many  years — in  another  hour  he  would  be  dead. 

But  the  things  that  he  saw  were  the  shadows  of  the  fire 
on  the  wall,  the  dancing  in  the  air  of  the  only  lock  of  hair 
that  Dr.  Brady  possessed,  the  way  that  Clare's  hands  were 
folded  as  she  stood  silently  by  the  bed.  Uncle  Garrett's 
waistcoat-buttons  that  shot  little  sparks  of  light  into  the 
room  as  he  turned,  ever  so  slightly,  from  side  to  side. 

At  a  motion  of  the  doctor's,  he  came  forward  to  bid  Sir 
Jeremy  farewell.  As  he  bent  over  the  bed  panic  seized 
him — he  did  not  see  Sir  Jeremy  but  something  horrible, 
terrible,  ghoulish — Death.  Then  he  saw  the  old  man's- 
eyes,  and  they  were  twinkling;  then  he  knew  that  he  was 


29^  THE  WOODEIT  HOESE 

speaking  to  him.     The  words  came  with  difficulty,  but 
they  were  quite  clear — 

"  You'll  be  a  good  man,  Robin — but  listen  to  your  father 
— he  knows — he'll  show  you  how  to  be  a  Trojan." 

Eor  a  moment  he  held  the  wrinkled,  shrivelled  hand  in 
his  own,  and  then  he  stepped  back.  Clare  bent  down  and 
kissed  her  father,  and  then  kneeled  down  by  the  bed ;  Robin 
had  a  mad  longing  to  laugh  as  he  saw  his  uncle  and  aunt 
kneeling  there,  their  heads  made  enormous  shadows  on  the 
wall. 

Harry  also  bent  down  and  kissed  his  father ;  the  old  man 
held  his  hand  and  kept  it — 

"  I've  tried  to  be  a  fair  man  and  a  gentleman — I've  not 
been  a  good  one.  But  I've  had  some  fun  and  seen  life — 
thank  God,  I  was  born  a  Trojan — so  will  the  rest  of  you. 
Harry,  my  boy,  you're  all  right — you'll  do.  I'm  going, 
but  I  don't  regret  anything — your  sins  are  experience —  _- 
and  the  greatest  sin  of  all  is  not  having  any."  ' 

/         His  lips  closed — as  the  fire  flashed  with  the  falling  of  a 
■cavern  of  blazing  coal  his  head  rolled  back  on  to  the  pillow. 

Suddenly  he  smiled — 

"  Dear  old  Harry !  "  he  said,  and  then  he  died. 

The  shadows  from  the  fire  leapt  and  danced  on  the  wall, 
and  the  kneeling  figures  by  the  bed  flung  grotesque  shapes 
over  the  dead  man. 


/ 


CHAPTER  XV 

T  T  was  five  o'clock  of  the  same  day  and  Harry  was  asleep 
■*•  in  front  of  his  fire.  In  the  early  hours  of  the  after- 
noon the  strain  under  which  he  had  been  during  the  past 
week  began  to  assert  itself,  and  every  part  of  his  body 
seemed  to  cry  out  for  sleep. 

His  head  was  throbbing,  his  legs  trembled,  and  strange 
lights  and  figures  danced  before  his  eyes ;  he  flung  himself 
into  a  chair  in  his  small  study  at  the  top  of  the  West  Tower 
and  fell  asleep. 

He  had  grown  to  love  that  room  very  dearly :  the  great 
stretch  of  the  sea  and  the  shining  sand  with  the  grey 
bending  hills  hemming  it  in ;  that  view  was  never  the 
same,  but  with  the  passing  of  every  cloud  held  new  colours 
like  a  bowl  of  shining  glass. 

The  room  was  bare  and  simple — that  had  been  his  own 
wish ;  a  photograph  of  his  first  wife  hung  over  the  mantel- 
piece, a  small  sketch  of  Auckland  Harbour,  a  rough  draw- 
ing of  the  Terraces  before  their  destruction — these  were 
all  his  pictures. 

He  had  been  trying  to  read  since  his  return,  and  copies 
of  "  The  Egoist "  and  some  of  Swinburne's  poetry  lay  on 
the  table ;  but  the  first  had  seemed  incomprehensible  to  him 
and  the  second  indecent,  and  he  had  abandoned  them ;  but 
he  had  made  one  discovery,  thanks  to  Bethel,  Walt  Whit- 
man's "  Leaves  of  Grass  " — it  seemed  to  him  the  greatest 

293 


294  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

book  that  lie  had  ever  read,  the  very  voicing  of  all  his  hopes 
and  ideals  and  faith.     Ah !  that  man  knew ! 

Benham  came  in  and  drew  the  curtains.  He  watched 
the  sleeping  man  for  a  moment  and  nodded  his  head.  He 
was  the  right  sort,  Mr.  Harry !  He  would  do ! — and  the 
Watcher  of  the  House  stole  out  again. 

Harry  slept  on^  a  great,  dreamless  sleep,  grey  and  form- 
less as  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion  always  is;  then  he  sud- 
denly woke  to  the  dim  twilight  of  the  room,  the  orange 
glow  of  the  dying  fire,  and  the  distant  striking  of  the  hour 
— it  was  six  o'clock ! 

As  he  lay  back  in  his  chair,  dreamily,  lazily  watching 
the  fire,  his  thoughts  were  of  his  father.  He  had  not 
known  that  he  would  regret  him  so  intensely,  but  he  saw 
now  that  the  old  man  had  meant  everything  to  him  during 
those  first  weeks  of  his  return.  He  thought  of  him  very 
tenderly — his  prejudices,  his  weaknesses,  his  traditions. 
It  was  strange  how  alike  they  all  were  in  reality,  the  Tro- 
jans! Sir  Jeremy,  Clare,  Garrett,  Eobin,  himself,  the 
same  bedrock  of  traditional  jiride  was  there,  it  was  only 
that  circumstances  had  altered  them  superficially.  Three 
weeks  ago  Clare  and  he  had  seemed  worlds  apart,  now  he 
saw  how  near  they  were !  But  for  that  very  reason,  they 
would  never  get  on — he  saw  that  quite  clearly.  They 
knew  too  well  the  weak  spots  in  each  other's  armour,  and 
their  pride  would  be  for  ever  at  war. 

He  did  not  want  to  turn  her  out — she  had  been  there  for 
all  those  years  and  it  was  her  home ;  but  he  thought  that 
she  herself  would  prefer  to  go.  There  was  a  charming 
place  in  ISTorfolk,  Wrexhall  Pogis,  that  had  been  let  for 
years,  and  there  was  quite  a  pleasant  little  place  in  town, 
3  Southwick  Crescent — yes,  she  would  probably  prefer  to 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  295 

go,  even  had  lie  not  meant  to  marry  Marj.  The  announce- 
ment of  that  little  affair  would  be  something  in  the  na- 
ture of  a  thunderbolt. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  go — the  head  of  the  House 
must  always  live  at  "  The  Flutes."  But  he  knew  already 
how  much  that  House  was  going  to  mean  to  him,  and  so 
he  guessed  how  much  it  must  mean  to  Clare. 

And  to  Eobin  ?  What  would  Eobin  do  ?  Three  weeks 
ago  there  could  have  been  but  one  answer  to  that  question 
— he  would  have  followed  his  aunt.  Now  Harry  was  not 
so  sure.  There  was  this  affair  of  Miss  Feverel ;  probably 
Eobin  would  come  to  him  about  it  and  then  they  would 
be  able  to  talk.  He  had  had  that  very  day  a  letter 
from  Dahlia  Eeverel.  He  looked  at  it  again  now;  it 
said : — 

Dear  Mb.  Trojan, — Mother  and  I  are  leaving  Pen- 
dragon  to-morrow — for  ever,  I  suppose — but  before  I  go 
I  thought  that  I  should  like  to  send  you  a  little  line  to 
thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  me.  That  sounds  terribly 
formal,  doesn't  it  ?  but  the  gratitude  is  really  there,  and 
indeed  I  am  no  letter-writer. 

You  met  a  girl  at  the  crisis  in  her  life  when  there  were 
two  roads  in  front  of  her  and  you  helped  her  to  choose  the 
right  one,  I  daresay  that  you  thought  that  you  did  very 
little — it  cannot  have  seemed  very  much,  that  short  meet- 
ing that  we  had ;  but  it  made  just  the  difference  to  me  and 
will,  I  know,  be  to  me  a  white  stone  from  which  I  shall  'i 
date  my  new  life.  I  am  not  a  strong  woman — I  never 
shall  be  a  strong  woman — and  it  was  partly  because  I 
thought  that  love  for  Eobin  was  going  to  give  me  that 
strength  that  it  hurt  so  terribly  when  I  found  that  the 
love  wasn't  there.  The  going  of  my  love  hurt  every  bit  \ 
as  much  as  the  going  of  his — it  had  been  something  to  be 
proud  of. 


296  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

I  relied  on  sentiment  and  now  I  am  going  to  rely  on  j 
/  work ;  those  are  the  only  two  alternatives  offered  to  women,  j 
(and  the  latter  is  so  often  denied  to  them. 

I  hope  that  it  may,  one  day,  give  you  pleasure  to  think 
\  that  you  once  helped  a  girl  to  do  the  strong  thing  instead 
I  of  the  weak  one.  Of  course,  my  love  for  Kobin  has  died, 
and  I  see  him  clearly  now  without  exaggeration.  What 
happened  was  largely  my  fault — I  spoilt  him,  I  think,  and 
helped  his  self-pride.  I  know  that  he  has  been  passing 
through  a  bad  time  lately,  and  I  am  sure  that  he  will 
come  to  you  to  help  him  out  of  it.  He  is  a  lucky  fellow 
to  have  some  one  to  help  him  like  that — and  then  he  will 
suddenly  see  that  he  has  done  a  rather  cruel  thing.  Poor 
Kobin  !  he  will  make  a  fine  man  one  day. 

I  have  got  a  little  secretaryship  in  London — nothing 
very  big,  but  it  will  give  me  the  work  that  I  want;  and, 
because  you  once  said  that  you  believed  in  me,  I  will  try 
to  justify  your  belief.  There !  that  is  sentiment,  isn't  it ! 
— and  I  have  flung  sentiment  away.  Well,  it  is  the  last 
time! 

Good-bye — I  shall  never  forget.  Thank  you.  Yours 
sincerely,  Dahlia  Fevekei.. 

So  perhaps,  after  all,  Robin's  mistakes  had  been  for  the 
good  of  all  of  them.  Mistake  was,  indeed,  a  slight  word 
for  what  he  had  done,  and,  thinking  of  it  even  now,  Harry's 
anger  rose. 

And  she  had  been  a  nice  girl,  too,  and  a  plucky  one. 

He  had  answered  her : — 

My  dear  Miss  Feverel, — I  was  extremely  pleased  to 
get  your  letter.  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  speak  as  you 
have  done  about  myself,  but  I  assure  you  that  what  I  did 
was  of  the  smallest  importance.  It  was  because  you  had 
pluck  yourself  that  you  pulled  through.  You  are  quite 
right  to  fling  away  sentiment.  I  came  back  to  England 
three  weeks  ago  longing  to  call  every  man  my  brother.     I 


( 


THE  WOODED  HOESE  297 

thouglit  that  by  a  mere  smile,  a  bending  of  the  finger,  the 
world  was  my  friend  for  life.  I  soon  found  my  mistake. 
Friendship  is  a  very  slow  and  gradual  affair,  and  I  dis- 
trust the  mushroom  growth  profoundly.  Life  isn't  easy 
in  that  kind  of  way;  you  and  I  have  found  that  out  to- 
gether. 

I  wish  you  every  success  in  your  new  life;  I  have  no 
doubt  whatever  that  you  will  get  on,  and  I  hope  that  you 
will  let  me  hear  sometimes  from  you. 

Things  have  been  happening  quickly  during  the  last  few 
days.  My  father  died  this  morning;  he  was  himself  glad 
to  go,  but  I  shall  miss  him  terribly — he  has  been  a 
most  splendid  friend  to  me  during  these  weeks.  Then  I 
know  that  you  will  be  interested  to  hear  that  I  am  engaged 
to  Miss  Bethel — you  know  her,  do  you  not  ?  I  hope  and 
believe  that  we  shall  be  very  happy. 

As  to  Robin,  he  has,  as  you  sa.y,  been  having  a  bad  time. 
To  do  him  justice  it  has  not  been  only  the  fear  of  the  let- 
ters that  has  hung  over  him — he  has  also  discovered  a  good 
many  things  about  himself  that  have  hurt  and  surprised 
him. 

Well,  good-bye — I  am  sure  that  you  will  look  back  on 
the  Robin  episode  with  gratitude.  It  has  done  a  great 
deal  for  all  of  us.  Good  luck  to  you !  Always  your 
friend,  Henry  Trojan. 

He  turned  on  the  lights  in  his  room  and  tried  to  read, 
but  he  found  that  that  was  impossible.  His  eyes  wandered 
off  the  page  and  he  listened :  he  caught  himself  again  and 
again  straining  his  ears  for  a  sound.  He  pictured  the  com- 
ing of  steps  up  the  stairs  and  then  sharp  and  loud  along 
the  passage — then  a  pause  and  a  knock  on  his  door.  Often 
he  fancied  that  he  heard  it,  but  it  was  only  fancy  and  he 
turned  away  disa^jpointed ;  but  he  was  sure  that  Robin 
would  come. 

They  had  decided  not  to  dine  downstairs  together  on  that 


298  THE  WOODEK  HOKSE 

evening — tliej  were,  all  of  them,  overwrouglit  and  the  situ- 
ation was  strained ;  they  were  wondering  what  he  was  go- 
ing to  do.  There  were,  of  course,  a  thousand  things  to  be 
done,  but  he  was  glad  that  they  had  left  him  alone  for  that 
night  at  any  rate.     He  wanted  to  be  quiet. 

He  had  written  a  letter  of  enormous  length  to  Mary, 
explaining  to  her  what  had  happened  and  telling  her  that 
he  would  come  to  her  in  the  morning.  It  was  very  hard, 
even  then,  not  to  rush  down  to  her,  but  he  felt  that  he 
must  keep  that  day  at  least  sacred  to  his  father. 

Would  Eobin  come  ?  It  was  quarter  to  seven  and  that 
terrible  sleep  was  beginning  to  overcome  him  again.  The 
fire,  the  walls,  the  pictures,  danced  before  his  eyes  .  .  . 
the  stories  of  the  fishermen  in  the  Cove  came  back  to  him 
.  .  .  the  Four  Stones  and  the  man  who  had  lost  his  way 
.  .  .  the  red  tiles  and  the  black  rafters  of  "  The  Bended 
Thumb "...  and  then  Mary's  beauty  above  it  all. 
Mary  on  the  moors  with  the  wind  blowing  through  her 
hair;  Mary  in  the  house  with  the  firelight  on  her  face, 
Mary  .  .  .  and  then  he  suddenly  started  up,  wide  awake, 
for  he  heard  steps  on  the  stair. 

He  knew  them  at  once — he  never  doubted  that  they  were 
Eobin's.  The  last  two  steps  were  taken  slowly  and  with 
hesitation. 

Then  he  hurried  down  the  passage  as  though  he  had 
suddenly  made  up  his  mind ;  then,  again,  there  was  a  long 
pause  before  the  door.  At  last  came  the  knock,  timidly, 
and  then  another  loudly  and  almost  violently. 

Harry  shouted  "  Come  in,"  and  Robin  entered,  his  face 
pale  and  his  hands  twisting  and  untwisting. 

"  Ah,  Eobin — do  you  want  anything  ?  Come  in — sit 
down.     I've  been  asleep." 


THE  WOODEN  HORSE  299 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry,  did  I  wake  you  up  ?  Xo,  thanks,  I 
won't  sit  down.  I've  got  some  things  I  want  to  say.  I'd 
rather  say  them  standing  up." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Harry  said  nothing  and 
stared  into  the  fire. 

"  I've  got  a  good  lot  to  say  altogether."  Robin  cleared 
his  throat.  "  It's  rather  hard.  Perhaps  this  doesn't  seem 
quite  the  time — after  grandfather — and — everything — 
but  I  couldn't  wait  very  well.  I've  been  a  bit  uncomfort- 
able." 

"  Out  with  it,"  said  Harry.  "  This  time  will  do  excel- 
lently— there's  a  bit  of  a  pause  just  now,  but  to-morrow 
everything  will  begin  again  and  there's  a  terrible  lot  to 
do.     What  is  it?" 

Was  it,  he  wondered,  Robin's  fault  or  his  own  that  there 
was  that  barrier  so  strangely  defined  between  them  even 
now;  he  could  feel  it  there  in  the  room  with  them  now. 
He  wondered  if  Robin  felt  it  as  well. 

"  It  is  about  what  my  aunt  said  to  you  this  morning — 
and  other  things — other  things  right  from  the  beginning, 
ever  since  you  came  back.  I'm  not  much  of  a  chap  at 
talking,  and  probably  I  shan't  say  what  I  mean,  but  I  will 
try.  Vye  been  thinking  about  it  all  lately,  but  what  made 
me  come  and  speak  to  you  was  this  morning — having  to 
ask  you  a  favour  after  being  so  beastly  rude  to  you.  A 
chap  doesn't  like  doing  that,  and  it  made  me  think — be- 
sides there  being  other  things." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  need  to  thank  me  about  this  morning," 
Harry  said  drily ;  "  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  do  what  I 
can." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that,"  Robin  said  quickly.  "  It  isn't 
about  that  somehow  that  I  mind  at  all  now;  I  have  been 


300  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

worrying  about  it  a  good  bit,  but  that  isn't  what  I  want  to 
speak  about.  I'll  go  through  with  it — Breach  of  Promise 
— or  whatever  it  is — if  only  you  wouldn't  think  me — well, 
quite  an  utter  rotter." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Harry  quietly,  "  that  you  would  sit 
down.     I'm  sure  that  you  would  find  it  easier  to  talk." 

Eobin  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  at  the  chair 
— then  he  sat  down. 

"  You  see,  somehow  grandfather's  dying  has  made  things 
seem  different  to  one — it  has  made  one  younger  somehow. 
I  used  to  think  that  I  was  really  very  old  and  knew  a  lot ; 
but  his  death  has  shown  me  that  I  know  nothing  at 
all — really  nothing.  But  there  have  been  a  lot  of  things 
all  happening  together — your  coming  back,  that  business 
with  Dahlia — Miss  Feverel,  you  know — a  dressing  down 
that  I  got  from  Miss  Bethel  the  other  evening,  and  then 
grandfather's  dying " 

He  paused  again  and  cleared  his  throat.  He  looked 
straight  into  the  fire  and,  every  now  and  again,  he  gave  a 
little  choke  and  a  gasp  which  showed  that  he  was  moved. 

"  A  chap  doesn't  like  talking  about  himself,"  he  went 
on  at  last;  "no  decent  chap  does;  but  unless  I  tell  you 
everything  from  the  beginning  it  will  never  be  clear — I 
must  tell  you  everything " 

"  Please — I  want  to  hear." 

"  Well,  you  see,  before  you  came  back,  I  suppose  that  I 
had  really  lots  of  side.  I  never  used  to  think  that  I  had, 
but  I  see  now  that  what  Mary  said  the  other  night  was 
perfectly  right — it  wasn't  only  that  I  '  sided  '  about  my- 
self, but  about  my  set  and  my  people  and  everything. 
And  then  you  came  back.  You  see  we  didn't  any  of  us 
very  much  think  that  we  wanted  you.     To  begin  with, 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  301 

you  weren't  exactly  like  my  governor ;  not  having  seen  you 
all  my  life  I  hadn't  thought  much  about  you  at  all,  and 
your  letters  were  so  unlike  anything  that  I  knew  that  I 
hadn't  believed  them  exactly.  We  were  very  happy  as  we 
were.  I  thought  that  I  had  everything  I  wanted.  And 
then  you  didn't  do  things  like  we  did ;  you  didn't  like  the 
same  books  and  pictures  or  anything,  and  I  was  angry 
because  I  thought  that  I  must  know  about  those  things  and 
I  couldn't  understand  you.  And  then  you  know  you  made 
things  worse  by  trying  to  force  my  liking  out  of  me,  and 
chaps  of  my  sort  are  awfully  afraid  of  showing  their  feel- 
ings to  any  one,  least  of  all  to  a  man — "     Eobin  paused. 

"  Yes,"  said  Harry,  "  I  know." 

"  But  all  this  isn't  an  excuse  really ;  I  was  a  most  awful 
cad,  and  there's  no  getting  away  from  it.  But  I  think  I 
began  to  see  almost  from  the  very  beginning  that  I  hadn't 
any  right  to  behave  like  that,  but  I  was  obstinate. 

"  And  then  I  began  to  get  in  a  fright  about  Miss  Fev- 
erel.  She  wouldn't  give  my  letters  back,  although  I  went 
to  her  and  Uncle  Garrett  and  Aunt  Clare — all  of  us — but 
it  was  no  good — she  meant  to  keejD  them  and  of  course  we 
knew  why.  And  then,  too,  I  saw  at  last  that  I'd  behaved 
like  an  utter  cad — it  was  funny  I  didn't  see  it  at  the  time. 
But  I'd  seen  other  chaps  do  the  same  sort  of  thing  and  the 
girls  didn't  mind,  and  I'd  thought  that  she  ought  to  be 
jolly  pleased  at  getting  to  know  a  Trojan — and  all  that 
sort  of  thing. 

^*  But  when  I  saw  that  she  wasn't  going  to  give  the  let- 
ters back  but  meant  to  use  them  I  was  terribly  frightened. 
It  wasn't  myself  so  much,  although  I  hated  the  idea  of  my 
friends  knowing  about  it  all  and  laughing  at  me — but  it 
was  the  House  too — my  letting  it  down  so. 


302  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

"  I'd  been  thinking  about  you  a  good  bit  already.  You 
see  you  changed  after  Aunt  Clare  spoke  to  you  that  morn- 
ing and  I  began  to  be  rather  afraid  of  you — and  when  a  » 
chap  begins  to  be  afraid  of  some  one  he  begins  to  like  him.  ^ 
I  got  Aunt  Clare  and  Uncle  Garrett  to  go  and  speak  to 
Dahlia,  and  they  couldn't  get  anything  out  of  her  at  all; 
so,  then,  I  began  to  wonder  whether  you  could  do  any- 
thing, and  as  soon  as  I  began  to  wonder  that  I  began  to 
want  to  talk  to  you.  But  I  never  got  much  chance;  you 
were  always  in  grandfather's  room,  and  you  didn't  give 
me  much  encouragement,  did  you  ?  and  then — I  began  to 
be  awfully  miserable.  I  don't  want  to  whine — I  deserved 
it  all  right  enough — but  I  didn't  seem  to  have  a  friend 
anywhere  and  all  my  things  that  I'd  believed  in  seemed  to 
be  worth  nothing  at  all.  Then  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you 
awfully,  and  when  grandfather  was  worse  and  was  dying 
I  began  to  see  things  straight — and  then  I  saw  Mary  and 
she  told  me  right  out  what  I  was,  and  I  saw  it  all  as  clear 
as  daylight. 

"  And  so ;  well,  I've  come — not  to  ask  you  to  help  me 
about  Dahlia — but  whether  you'll  help  me  to  play  the  game 
better.  I  wasn't  always  slack  and  rotten  like  I  am  now. 
When  I  was  in  Germany  I  thought  I  was  going  to  do  all 
sorts  of  things — there  was  an  old  chap  at  Worms  .  .  .  but 
anyhow  I  can't  say  exactly  all  that  I  mean.  Only  I'm 
awfully  lonely  and  terribly  ashamed;  and  I  want  you  to 
forgive  me  for  being  so  beastly  to  you " 

He  looked  wretched  enough  as  he  sat  there  facing  the 
fire  with  his  lip  quivering.  He  made  a  strong  effort  to 
control  himself,  but  in  a  moment  he  had  broken  down  alto- 
gether and  hid  his  head  in  the  arm  of  the  chair,  sobbing  as 
if  his  heart  would  break. 


THE  WOODElvr  HOESE  303 

Harry  waited.  The  moment  for  which,  he  had  longed  so 
patiently  had  come  at  last ;  all  those  weary  weeks  had  now 
received  their  reward.  But  he  was  very  tired  and  he 
could  not  remember  anything  except  that  his  boy  was  there 
and  that  he  was  crying  and  wanted  some  one  to  help  him 
— which  was  very  sentimental. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  put  his  hand  on  Eobin's 
shoulder. 

"  Kobin,  old  boy — don't ;  it's  all  right  really.  I've  been 
waiting  for  you  to  come  and  speak  to  me ;  of  course,  I  knew 
that  you  would  come.  ISTever  mind  about  those  other 
things — we're  going  to  have  a  splendid  time,  you  and  I." 

He  put  his  arm  round  him.  There  was  a  moment's  si- 
lence, then  the  boy  turned  round  and  gripped  his  father's 
coat — then  he  buried  his  head  in  his  father's  knees. 

Benham  entered  half-an-hour  later  with  Harry's  even- 
ing meal. 

"  I  will  have  mine  here,  too,  Benham,"  said  Robin, 
"  with  my  father." 

"  There  is  one  thing,  Eobin,"  said  Harry  a  little  later, 
laughing — "  what  about  the  letters  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know !  "  Eobin  looked  up  at  his  father  ap- 
pealingly.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  must  think  of  me 
over  that  business.  But  I  suppose  I  believed  for  a  time  in 
it  all,  and  then  when  I  saw  that  it  wouldn't  do  I  just 
wanted  to  get  out  of  it  as  quickly  as  I  could.  I  never  seem 
to  have  thought  about  it  at  all — and  now  I'm  more  ashamed 
than  I  can  say.  But  I  think  I'll  go  through  with  it;  I 
don't  see  that  there's  anything  else  very  much  for  me  to 
do,  any  other  way  of  making  up — I  think  I'd  rather  face 
it." 


304:  THE  WOODEN"  HORSE 

"  Would  you  ?  "  said  Harry.  "  What  about  your  friends 
and  the  House  ?  " 

Eobin  flinched  for  a  moment;  then  he  said  resolutely, 
"  Yes,  it  would  be  better  for  them  too.  You  see  they  know 
already — the  House,  I  mean.  All  the  chaps  in  the  din- 
ing-hall  and  the  j)icture-gallery,  they've  known  about  it  all 
day,  and  I  know  that  they'd  rather  I  didn't  back  out  of  it. 
Besides — "  he  hesitated  a  moment.  "  There's  another 
thing — I  have  the  kind  of  feeling  that  I  can't  have  hurt 
Dahlia  so  very  much  if  she's  the  kind  of  girl  to  carry  that 
sort  of  thing  through ;  if,  I  mean,  she  takes  it  like  that  she 
isn't  the  sort  of  girl  that  would  mind  very  much  what  I 
had  done " 

"  Is  she,"  said  Harry,  "  that  sort  of  girl  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  she  is.  That's  what's  puzzled  me 
about  it  all.  She  was  worth  twenty  of  me  really.  But 
any  decent  sort  of  girl  would  have  given  them  back " 

"  She  has " 

"What?" 

"  Given  them  back." 

"  The  letters  ?  " 

Harry  went  to  his  writing-table  and  produced  the  bundle. 
They  lay  in  his  hand  with  the  blue  ribbon  and  the  neat 
handwriting,  "  For  Eobert  Trojan,"  outside. 

Eobin  stared.     "  Not  the  letters  ?  " 

"  Yes — the  letters ;  I  have  had  them  some  days." 

But  still  he  did  not  move.  "  You've  had  them  ? — sev- 
eral days  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  went  to  see  Miss  Feverel  on  my  own  account 
and  she  gave  me  them " 

"  You  had  them  when  we  asked  you  to  help  us !  " 


THE  WOODEK  HOESE  305 

"  Yes — of  course.  It  was  a  little  secret  of  my  own  and 
Miss  Feverel's — our — if  you  like — revenge." 

"  And  we've  been  laughing  at  you,  scorning  you ;  and 
we  tried — all  of  us — and  could  do  nothing !  I  say,  pater, 
you're  the  cleverest  chap  in  England!  Score!  Why  I 
should  think  you  have !  "  and  then  he  added,  "  But  I'm 
ashamed — terribly.  You  have  known  all  these  days  and 
said  nothing — and  I!  I  wonder  what  you've  thought  of 
me " 

He  took  the  letters  into  his  hand  and  undid  the  ribbon 
slowly.  "  I'm  jolly  glad  you've  known — it's  as  if  you'd 
been  looking  after  the  family  all  this  time,  while  we  were 
plunging  around  in  the  dark.  What  a  score!  That  we 
should  have  failed  and  you  so  absolutely  succeeded — " 
Then  again,  "  But  I'm  jolly  ashamed — I'll  tell  you  every- 
thing— always.     We'll  work  together " 

He  looked  them  through  and  then  flung  them  into  the 
fire. 

"  I've  grown  up,"  he  suddenly  cried ;  "  come  of  age  at 
last — at  last  I  know." 

"  liot  too  fast,"  said  Harry,  smiling;  "  it's  only  a  stage. 
There's  plenty  to  learn — and  we'll  learn  it  together." 
Then,  after  a  pause,  "  There's  another  thing,  though,  that 
will  astonish  you  a  bit — I'm  engaged " 

"  Engaged !  "  Eobin  stared.  Quickly  before  his  eyes 
passed  visions  of  terrible  Colonial  women — some  entangle- 
ment that  his  father  had  contracted  abroad  and  had  been 
afraid  to  announce  before.  Well,  whatever  it  might  be,  he 
would  stand  by  him !  It  was  they  two  against  the  world 
whatever  happened! — and  Robin  felt  already  the  antici- 
patory glow  of  self-sacrificing  heroism. 


306  THE  WOODEN  HORSE 

Harry  smiled.     "  Yes — Mary  Bethel !  " 

"  Mary !     Hurrah !  " 

He  rushed  at  his  father  and  seized  his  hand —  "  You 
and  Mary !  Why,  it's  simjDly  splendid !  The  very  thing 
— I'd  rather  it  were  she  than  any  one ! — she  told  me  what 
she  thought  of  me  the  other  night,  I  can  tell  you — fairly 
went  for  me.  By  Jove !  I'm  glad — we'll  have  some  times, 
three  of  us  here  together.     When  was  it  ?  " 

"  Oh !  only  this  morning !  I  had  asked  her  before,  but 
it  was  only  settled  this  morning." 

Then  Robin  was  suddenly  grave.  "  Oh !  but,  I  say, 
there's  Aunt  Clare — and  Uncle  Garrett !  "  He  had  ut- 
terly forgotten  them.  What  would  they  say?  The 
Bethels  of  all  people ! 

"  Yes.  I've  thought  about  it.  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I'm 
afraid  Aunt  Clare  won't  want  to  stay.  I  don't  see  what's 
to  be  done.     I  haven't  told  her  yet " 

Robin  saw  at  once  that  he  must  choose  his  future ;  it  was 
to  be  his  aunt  or  his  father.  His  aunt  with  all  those 
twenty  years  of  faithful  service  behind  her,  his  aunt  who 
had  done  everything  for  him — or  his  father  whom  he  had 
known  for  three  weeks.  But  he  had  no  hesitation;  there 
was  now  no  question  it  was  his  father  for  ever  against  the 
world ! 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said  slowly.  "  Perhaps  there  will  be 
some  arrangement.  Poor  Aunt  Clare!  Did  you — teU 
grandfather  ? " 

"  ISTo.  I  wanted  to,  but  I  had  no  opportunity.  But  he 
knows — I  am  sure  that  he  knows." 

Their  thoughts  passed  to  the  old  man.  It  was  almost  as 
if  he  had  been  there  in  the  room  with  them,  and  they  felt, 
curiously,  as  though  he  had  at  that  moment  handed  over 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  307 

the  keys  of  the  House.  For  an  instant  they  saw  him :  his 
eyes  like  diamonds,  his  wrinkled  cheeks,  his  crooked  fin- 
gers— and  then  his  laugh.     "  Harry,  my  boy,  you'll  do." 

"  It's  almost  as  if  he  was  here,"  said  Robin.  He  turned 
round  and  put  his  hand  in  his  father's. 

"  I  know  he's  pleased,"  he  said. 

And  so  it  was  during  the  next  week,  through  the  funeral, 
and  the  gathering  of  relatives  and  the  gradual  dispersing 
of  them  again,  and  the  final  inevitable  seclusion  when  the 
world  and  the  relations  and  the  dead  had  all  joined  in  leav- 
ing the  family  alone.  The  gathering  of  Trojans  had 
shown,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  Harry  was  perfectly  fitted  to 
take  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  family.  Pie  had  acted 
throughout  with  perfect  tact  and  everything  had  gone  with- 
out a  hitch.  Many  Trojans  had  arrived  for  the  funeral — 
mournful,  red-eyed  Trojans,  with  black  crape  and  an  air 
of  deferential  resignation  that  hinted,  also,  at  curiosity  as 
regards  the  successor.  They  watched  Harry,  ready  for 
anything  that  might  gratify  their  longing  for  sensational 
failure ;  a  man  from  the  backwoods  was  certain  to  fail,  and 
their  chagrined  disappointment  was  only  solaced  by  their 
certainty  of  some  little  sensation  in  the  announcement  of 
his  surprising  success. 

Of  course,  Clare  had  been  useful;  it  was  on  such  an 
occasion  that  she  appeared  at  her  best.  She  was  kind  to 
them  all,  but  at  the  same  time  impressed  the  dignity  of  her 
position  upon  them,  so  that  they  went  away  declaring  that 
Clare  Trojan  knew  how  to  carry  herself  and  was  young  for 
her  years. 

The  funeral  was  an  occasion  of  great  ceremony  and  the 
town  attended  in  crowds.  Harry  realised  in  their  altered 
demeanour  to  himself  their  appreciation  of  the  value  of  his 


308  THE  WOODEN  HOESE 

succession,  and  lie  knew  that  Sir  Henry  Trojan  was  some- 
thing very  different  from  the  plain  Harry.  But  he  had, 
from  the  beginning,  taken  matters  very  quietly.  Now  that 
he  was  assured  of  the  affection  of  the  only  two  people  who 
were  of  importance  to  him  he  could  afford  to  treat  with 
easy  acquiescence  anything  else  that  Fate  might  have  in 
store  for  him.  His  diffidence  had,  to  some  extent,  left  him, 
and  he  took  everything  that  came  with  an  ease  that  had 
been  entirely  foreign  to  him  three  weeks  before. 

Clare  might  indeed  wonder  at  the  change  in  him,  for  she 
had  not  the  key  that  unlocked  the  mystery.  The  week 
seemed  to  draw  father  and  son  very  closely  together. 
Years  seemed  to  have  made  little  difference  in  their  out- 
look on  things,  and  in  some  ways  Robin  was  the  elder  of 
the  two.  They  said  nothing  about  Mary — that  was  to 
wait  until  after  the  funeral ;  but  the  consciousness  of  their 
secret  added  to  the  bond  between  them. 

Clare  herself  regarded  the  future  comjDlacently.  She 
was,  she  felt,  absolutely  essential-  to  the  right  ruling  of  the 
House,  and  she  intended,  gradually  but  surely,  to  restore 
her  command  above  and  below  stairs.  The  only  possible 
lion  in  her  path  was  Harry's  marrying,  but  of  that  there 
seemed  no  fear  at  all. 

She  admired  him  a  little  for  his  conduct  during  their 
father's  funeral ;  he  was  not  such  an  oaf  as  she  had  thought 
— but  she  would  bide  her  time. 

At  last,  however,  the  thunderbolt  fell.  It  was  a  week 
after  the  funeral,  and  they  had  reached  dessert.  Clare 
sometimes  stayed  with  them  while  they  smoked,  and,  as  a 
rule,  conversation  was  not  very  general.  To-night,  how- 
ever, she  rose  to  go.     Her  black  suited  her ;  her  dark  hair. 


THE  WOODEIT  HOESE  309 

lier  dark  eyes,  the  dark  trailing  clouds  of  lier  dress — it  was 
niagnijS.cently  sombre  against  the  firelight  and  the  shine 
of  the  electric  lamps  on  the  silver.  But  Harry's  "  Wait  a 
moment,  Clare,  I  want  to  talk,"  called  her  back,  and  she 
stood  by  the  door  looking  over  her  shoulder  at  him. 

Then  when  she  saw  from  his  glance  that  it  was  a  mat- 
ter of  importance,  she  came  back  slowly  again  towards 
him. 

"  Another  family  council  ?  "  said  Garrett  rather  impa^ 
tiently.     "  We  have  had  a  generous  supply  lately." 

"  I'm  afraid  this  is  imperative,"  said  Harry.  "  I  am 
sorry  to  bother  you,  Clare,  but  this  seems  to  me  the  best 
time." 

"  Oh,  any  time  suits  me,"  she  said  indifferently,  sitting 
down  reluctantly.  "  But  if  it's  household  affairs,  I  should 
think  that  we  need  hardly  keep  Garrett  and  Eobin." 

"  It  is  something  that  concerns  us  all  four,"  said  Harry. 
"  I  am  going  to  be  married !  " 

It  had  been  from  the  beginning  of  things  a  Trojan  dic- 
tum that  the  revealing  of  emotion  was  the  worst  of 
gaucheries — Clare,  Garrett,  and  Robin  himself  had  been 
schooled  in  this  matter  from  their  respective  cradles ;  and 
now  the  lesson  must  be  put  into  practice. 

For  Eobin,  of  course,  it  was  no  revelation  at  all,  but  he 
dared  not  look  at  his  aunt ;  he  understood  a  little  what  it 
must  mean  to  her.  To  those  that  watched  her,  however, 
nothing  was  revealed.  She  stood  by  the  fire,  her  hands  at 
her  side,  her  head  slightly  turned  towards  her  brother. 

"  Might  I  ask,"  she  said  quietly,  "  the  name  of  the 
fortunate  lady  ?  " 

"  Miss  Bethel !  " 


310  THE  WOODEN"  HOESE 

"  Miss  Bethel !  "  Garrett  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Harry, 
you  must  be  joking !  You  can't  mean  it !  Not  the  daugh- 
ter of  Bethel  at  the  Point — the  madman ! — the " 

"  Please,  Garrett,"  said  Harry,  "  remember  that  she 
has  promised  to  be  my  wife.     I  am  sorry,  Clare,  I " 

He  turned  round  to  his  sister. 

But  she  had  said  nothing.  She  pulled  a  chair  from  the 
table  and  sat  down,  quietly,  without  obvious  emotion. 

"  It  is  a  little  unexpected,"  she  said.  "  But  really  if  we 
had  considered  things  it  was  obvious  enough.  It  is  all  of  a 
piece.  Eobin  tried  for  Breach  of  Promise,  the  Bethels  in 
the  house  before  father  has  been  buried  for  three  days — the 
policy  and  traditions  of  the  last  three  hundred  years  upset 
in  three  weeks." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Harry,  "  I  could  scarcely  expect  you 
to  welcome  the  change.  You  do  not  know  Miss  Bethel.  I 
am  afraid  you  are  a  little  prejudiced  against  her.  And, 
indeed,  please — please,  believe  me  that  it  has  been  my  very 
last  wish  to  go  counter  in  any  way  to  your  own  plans.  But 
it  has  seemed  almost  unavoidable ;  we  have  found  that  one 
thing  after  another  has  arisen  about  which  we  could  not 
agree.  Is  it  too  late  now  to  reconsider  the  position  ? 
Couldn't  we  pull  together  from  this  moment  ?  " 

But  she  interrupted  him.  "  Come,  Harry,"  she  said, 
"  whatever  we  are,  let  us  avoid  hypocrisy.  You  have 
beaten  me  at  every  point  and  I  must  retire.  I  have  seen 
in  three  weeks  everything  that  I  had  cared  for  and  loved 
destroyed.  You  come  back  a  stranger,  and  without  know-- 
ing  or  caring  for  the  proper  dignity  of  the  House,  you  have 
done  what  you  pleased.  Finally,  you  are  bringing  a 
woman  into  the  House  whose  parents  are  beggars,  whose 
social  position  makes  her  unworthy  of  such  a  marriage. 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  311 

You  cannot  expect  me  to  love  you  for  it.  From  this  mo- 
ment we  cease  to  exist  for  each  other.  I  hope  that  I  may 
never  see  you  again  or  hear  from  you.  I  shall  not  indulge 
in  heroics  or  melodrama,  but  I  will  never  forgive  you.  I 
suppose  that  the  house  at  JS^orfolk  is  at  my  disposal  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered.  Then  he  turned  to  his 
brother.  "  I  hope,  Garrett,"  he  said,  "  that  you  do  not 
feel  as  strongly  about  the  matter  as  Clare.  I  should  be 
very  glad  if  you  found  it  possible  to  remain." 

That  gentleman  was  in  a  difficult  position;  he  changed 
colour  and  tried  to  avoid  his  sister's  eyes.  After  a  rapid 
survey  of  the  position,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  would  not  be  nearly  as  comfortable  in  Norfolk — he 
could  not  write  his  book  as  easily,  and  the  house  had 
scarcely  the  same  position  of  importance.  He  had  grown 
fond  of  the  place.  Harry,  after  all,  was  not  a  bad  chap 
- — he  seemed  very  anxious  to  be  pleasant;  and  even  Mary 
Bethel  mightn't  turn  out  so  badly. 

"  You  see,  Clare,"  he  said  slowly,  "  there  is  the  book — 
and — well,  on  the  whole,  I  think  it  would  be  almost  better 
if  I  remained ;  it  is  not,  of  course,  that " 

Clare's  lip  curled  scornfully. 

"  I  understand,  Garrett,  you  could  scarcely  be  expected 
to  leave  such  comforts  for  so  slight  a  reason.  And  you, 
Eobin  ?  " 

She  held  the  chair  with  her  hand  as  she  spoke.  The 
fury  at  her  heart  was  such  that  she  could  scarcely  breathe ; 
she  was  quite  calm,  but  she  had  a  mad  desire  to  seize  Harry 
as  he  sat  there  at  the  table  and  strangle  him  with  her  hands. 
And  Garrett! — the  contemptible  coward!  But  if  only 
Eobin  would  come  with  her,  then  the  rest  mattered  little. 
After  all,  it  had  only  been  a  fortnight  ago  when  he  had 


312  THE  WOODEN  HOKSE 

stood  at  her  side  and  rejected  his  father.  The  scene  now 
was  parallel — her  voice  grew  soft  and  trembled  a  little  as 
she  spoke  to  him. 

"  Eobin,  dear,  what  will  you  do  ?  Will  you  come  with 
me?" 

For  a  moment  father  and  son  looked  at  each  other,  then 
Kobin  answered — 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  come  and  stay  sometimes.  Aunt 
Clare — often — whenever  you  care  to  have  me.  But  I 
think  that  I  must  stay  here.  I  have  been  talking  to  father 
and  I  am  going  up  to  London  to  try,  I  think,  for  the  Diplo- 
matic.    We  thought " 

But  the  "  we  "  was  too  much  for  her. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  she  said,  turning  to  Harry. 
"  You  have  done  a  great  deal  in  three  weeks.  It  looks," 
she  said,  looking  round  the  room,  "  almost  like  a  con- 
spiracy. I — "  Then  she  suddenly  broke  down.  She 
bent  down  over  Eobin  and  caught  his  head  between  her 
hands — 

"  Bobin — Bobin  dear — you  must  come,  you  must,  dear. 
I  brought  you  up — I  have  loved  you — always — always. 
You  can't  leave  me  now,  old  boy,  after  all  that  I  have  done 
— all,  everything.     Why,  he  has  done  nothing — he " 

She  kissed  him  again  and  again,  and  caught  his  hands : 
"  Bobin,  I  love  you — ^you — only  in  all  the  world ;  you  are 
all  that  I  have  got " 

But  he  put  her  hands  gently  aside.  "  Blease — please — 
Aunt  Clare,  I  am  dreadfully  sorry " 

And  then  her  pride  returned  to  her.  She  walked  to  the 
door  with  her  head  high. 

"  I  will  go  to  the  Darcy's  in  London  until  that  other 
house  is  ready.     I  will  go  to-morrow " 


THE  WOODEN  HOESE  313 

She  opened  the  door,  hut  Harry  sprang  up — 

"  Please,  Clare — don't  go  like  that.  Think  over  it — 
perhaps  to-morrow " 

"  Oh,  let  me  go,"  she  answered  wearily ;  "  the  comedy  is 
played  out." 

She  walked  up  the  stairs  to  her  room.  She  could 
scarcely  see — Robin  had  denied  her ! 

She  shut  the  door  of  her  bedroom  behind  her  and  fell  at 
the  foot  of  her  bed,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands.  Then 
at  last  she  burst  into  a  storm  of  tears — 

"  Eobin !  Robin !  "  she  cried. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

TT  was  Christmas  Eve  and  the  Cove  lay  buried  in  snow. 
■*•  The  sea  was  grey  like  steel,  and  made  no  sound  as  it 
ebbed  and  flowed  up  the  little  creek.  The  sky  was  grey 
and  snowflakes  fell  lazily,  idly,  as  though  half  afraid  to  let 
themselves  go ;  a  tiny  orange  moon  glittered  over  the  chim- 
neys of  "  The  Bended  Thumb." 

Harry  came  out  of  the  Inn  and  stood  for  a  moment  to 
turn  up  the  collar  of  his  coat.  The  perfect  stillness  of 
the  scene  pleased  him;  the  world  was  like  the  breathless- 
moment  before  some  great  event :  the  opening  of  Pandora's 
box,  the  leaping  of  armed  men  from  the  belly  of  the  wooden 
horse,  the  flashing  of  Excalibur  over  the  mere,  the  birth  of 
some  little  child. 

He  sighed  as  he  passed  down  the  street.  He  had  read 
in  his  morning  paper  that  the  Cove  was  doomed.  The 
word  had  gone  forth,  the  Town  Council  had  decided ;  the 
Cove  was  to  be  pulled  down  and  a  street  of  lodging-houses 
was  to  take  its  place.  Pendragon  would  be  no  longer  a 
place  of  contrasts ;  it  would  be  all  of  a  piece,  a  completely 
popular  watering-place. 

The  vision  of  its  passing  hurt  him — so  much  must  go 
with  it ;  and  gradually  he  saw  the  beauty  and  the  supersti- 
tion and  the  wonder  being  driven  from  the  world — the 
Old  World — and  a  hard  Iron  and  Steel  Materialism  re- 
lentlessly taking  its  place. 

But  he  himself  had  changed ;  the  place  had  had  its  in- 

314 


THE  WOODEiT  HORSE  315 

fluence  on  him,  and  lie  was  beginning  to  see  the  beauty  of 
these  improvements,  these  manufactures,  these  hard 
straight  lines  and  gaunt  ugly  squares.  Progress? 
ProgTess?  Inevitable? — yes!  Useful? — why,  yes,  too! 
But  beautiful  ? — Well,  perhaps  ...  he  did  not  know. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  he  turned  and  saluted  the  cold 
grey  sky  and  sea  and  moor.  The  Four  Stones  were  in 
harmony  to-day:  white,  and  pearl-grey,  with  hints  of 
purple  in  their  shadows — oh  beautiful  and  mysterious 
world ! 

He  went  into  the  Bethels'  to  call  for  Mary.  Bethel  ap- 
peared for  a  moment  at  the  door  of  his  study  and 
shouted — 

"  Hullo !  Harry,  my  boy !  Frightfully  busy  catalogu- 
ing! Going  out  for  a  run  in  a  minute!" — the  door 
closed. 

His  daughter's  engagement  seemed  to  have  made  little 
difference  to  him.  He  was  pleased,  of  course,  but  Harry 
wondered  sometimes  whether  he  realised  it  at  all. 

Not  so  Mrs.  Bethel.  Arrayed  in  gorgeous  colours,  she 
was  blissfully  happy.  She  was  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
now. 

"  Just  a  minute,  Harry — Mary's  nearly  ready.  Oh ! 
my  dear,  you  haven't  been  out  in  that  thin  waistcoat  .  .  . 
but  you'll  catch  your  death — just  a  minute,  my  dear,  and 
let  me  get  something  warmer  ?  Oh  do !  Now  you're  an 
obstinate,  bad  man !  Yes,  a  bad,  bad  man  " — but  at  this 
moment  arrived  Mary,  and  they  said  good-bye  and  were 
away. 

During  the  few  weeks  that  they  had  been  together  there 
had  been  no  cloud.  Pendragon  had  talked,  but  they  had 
not  listened  to  it ;  they  had  been  perfectly,  ideally  happy. 


316  THE  WOODEN"  HOUSE 

They  seemed  to  have  known  each  other  completely  so  long 
ago — not  only  their  virtues  but  their  faults  and  failures. 

With  her  arm  in  his  they  passed  through  the  gate  and 
found  Eobin  waiting  for  them. 

"  Hullo !  you  two !  Just  heard  from  Macf adden.  He 
suggests  Catis  in  Dover  Street  for  six  months  and  then 
abroad.  He  thinks  I  ought  to  pass  easily  enough  in  a 
year's  time — and  then  it  will  mean  Germany !  " 

His  face  was  lighted  with  excitement. 

"  Right  you  are !  "  cried  Harry.  "  Anything  that  Mac- 
fadden  suggests  is  sure  to  be  pretty  right.  What  do  you 
say,  Mary  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  anything  about  men's  businesses," 
she  said,  laughing.  "  Only  don't  be  too  long  away, 
Robin." 

They  passed  down  the  garden,  the  three  of  them,  to- 
gether. 

In  Norfolk  a  woman  sat  at  her  window  and  watched  the 
snow  tumbling  softly  against  the  panes.  The  garden  was 
a  white  sea — the  hills  loomed  whitely  beyond — the  sky 
was  grey  with  small  white  clouds,  hanging  like  pillows 
heavily  in  mid-air. 

The  snow  whirled  and  tossed  and  danced. 

Clare  turned  slowly  from  the  windows  and  drew  down 
the  blinds. 


THE,  EISTD 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


PR 

6045 

Wlowo- 


li  . 


llliiiiiliii 


